Some women feel 'bound' to a house; this poem is about a woman who feels that way.
*************************

Only a house wife ... in stitches
as my house wears the britches.
(I hope the Devil itches.)
He rests while I do dishes.
If my life were a 'live 'er',
wouldn't mind ev'ry sliver.
If I had a maid, riches,
wouldn't mind kissin' ... stitches.

My house is weary, cold, damp--
harder to hug than a lamp!
It's 'husbandly' ways do cramp,
often leaves wives with a limp.
It orders, calling, "Do this!"
Can't go to the bathroom ... piss.
For our child, he suggests 'camp';
"We can frolick ... like a tramp."

All the other houses 'round,
don't keep wives as closely bound.
Yesterday we drove to town--
the convertible top down--
first lost his top, then shutters.
"Coming apart," he blubbers,
as he cracks ... comes apart,
turns, "I have to blow, Sweetheart."

Not planning to remarry;
married to a house ... dreary