These three have lives which are not lives at all
In misery they pray soon for the end:
The one who has no table he can call
His own; but must take all meals from his friend.
The one whose wife rules with an iron fist
And says when he may move, and when be still
And pounds the flour cakes with heavy wrist
And thus the whole house bends to do her will.
The one whose body’s wracked by searing pain
With weariness, with fever, and with fret
Whose bones ache sadly with the coming rain
Who wakes each day to find no respite yet.
Some say: Also the man who has one shirt
But he can pick the lice and wash the dirt.