You may talk about the joys of the sweet honeymoon;
They are nice, I'll agree, while they last;
But almost every case they're done too soon
And numbered with the things of the past.
The trials and the troubles are soon to begin;
Although you may do what you can,
You'll wish you were out of the clatter and the din
That follow the poor married man.
 
Chorus:
With the racket and the muss and the trouble and the fuss,
His face all haggard and wan,
You can tell by his clothes wherever he goes
That he is a poor married man.
 
He works all day and tries to be gay
And forget all his worry and care,
He whistles it down as he goes through the town
Though his heart is full of despair.
His very last cent has already been spent,
And at home there's Mollie and Dan
Both crying for shoes; and it gives him the blues
To think he's a poor married man.
 
When he goes to bed with his poor tired head
He lies on the edge of the rail,
And the colic and the croup make him jump up and whoop
Like a dog with a can to his tail.
He must run and walk, he must sing and rock,
He must get up some water and a fan,
He must bounce and leap and do without sleep
If he is a poor married man.
 
From his mother-in-law he gets nothing but jaw,
No matter how hard he may try.
To keep her tune she will fly unto him
And all of his wishes defy.
He's a fool, he's a brute, and he never can suit,
Though he does the very best that he can;
He'd better be dead, for it then could be said
He's at rest - he's a poor married man.