Epitome of Victorian man
demanding to be the patriarch,
the man of the house, the father figure
law, bread and butter, wearing the pants.

( With his chair by the fire and smoking a pipe,
tweed slippers he wears, masters dog at his feet. )

Stubborn, mule headed, unyielding as ice
he glares at the young, but less deserving than they
growls at them all, when all that they do
is play ... having so much fun.

But summoning always the housemaid he needs
( in her place, she's his surrogate mum, )
and when income 'flows' in, miracles work
their home all alone she keeps.

He, early to rise, and early to work, then early back home again
five whole days of graft works he, only two of solid rest,
but by the end of the month, a 'basic' brings home
she'd wish it would last a four week.

And under the thumb, thinks he holds her
putting down always, when friends call around,
taking his share of the kitty she holds
but always wants more of whatever she gives.

He never is wrong, the obvious stating
whats been mentioned before, now his to tell her,
and she takes it all with calm and grace
I still can't believe that it's really her.

So, far stronger than steel that hold down her feet
she now wears the shackles she forged,
and the scars I see bared from imprisonment
were carved when she donned, the shroud that see wove.

And the tears from my heart, to see her so used
she's still trapped in once gilded, now rusty cage,
so better by far, freedom from *******
far worse, life squandered in thrall.**

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