From the New York Tribune, September 18, 1912.
 

 Dear Sir, I am a bachelor;
   My income is twelve hun’.
 ‘Tis small, no doubt, yet I contrive
   To have a deal of fun.
 You’ll think me selfish, yet until
   I’m richer, I must own,
 I’d rather be a bachelor,
   And jog along alone.
 
 Far be it from me to deride
   Or scoff at wedded bliss;
 I’ve thought the matter over well,
   And my opinion’s this:
 Though bachelors are selfish things,
   ‘Twould just as selfish be
 To take a wife, and bring her to
   A life of drudgery.
 
 Suppose I loved a girl (I do),
   D’you think I’d care to see
 Her toil, and soil her pretty hands
   The livelong day for me?
 If I grow rich, I’ll crave the hand
   Of her whom I adore;
 If not, dear sir, I must remain
   A lonely bachelor.