Radio Plugger's Wife

UNHAPPY husband mine! Sane folk are saying,
A public pimp, hired hypocrite. So, sighing,
I hear his hooey. When I was simpler, seeing
My lightsome, luckless lover surely soaring,
I never feared he’d fail, and fall to boring—
Geyser of gush, a bosh-besotted being,
Selling his soul to bellow into buying,
With sponsor-strident ballyhooing baying.

If, with a wink, he’d grin and call it guying,
Mayhap I might be grudgingly agreeing
That, at the price they pay, ‘tis golden going;
Haply my hair would not so soon go grayin.
No; relishing the rubbish he’s relaying,
The clamant cow of trade he leads a-lowing
Chorused by crude commercial tru-la-leeing.
He calls his cackle life; I call it lying.

He fails to feel that my caress is cooling;
That when he mouths his mike I sit a-scowling,
Perplexed that he is proud of his crass calling,
And never knows his cheap career is coiling,
Strangling all striving, all his future foiling.
Would he might ween what fate is him befalling!
Or that his petty plugging, fact-befouling,
Were talked tongue-cheeked, fantastically fooling!