They were the housewives, so I'm told.
So shall the real woman wake,
Early from bed and for her family bake,
The bread of life.
Such was the routine of a good wife.
What at all is house chores?
A mere sweeping and cleaning course,
Yet we're expected to praise them aloud,
And pamper them like a manner from the cloud.
If this mind of societal stereotype,
Keep flowing freely like a leaking pipe,
In an era of this economic hype.
Shall our women be healthy alive,
Even if indeed they do survive?
A career woman she's now called,
Aid to man when his pocket stalled,
Beautifully dressed to work,
Yet at home we fail to praise her worth.
This is poetry for May day,
A caution for men to make hay.
As she helps financially at home,
Assist her to tidy up the dome.
Now she's green and stands tall,
But green leaves too do fall.
After all this grass has dried up,
What else will dare to spring up?
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