This woman has a drunk for a husband,
Philanderer, two-timer;
Her culture makes it unacceptable not to accept.
Buttoned down, buttoned up,
Under the carpet,
Behind the stairs,
She cries in the night like a cat, no tears,
All her sadness whispered to the moon,
And me - who once was there;
The rage is tiring her, escaped,
Always out of her grasp,
She has no focus to direct it against the man who slab-like
Wobbles his belly along the street
In upright, overwheening pride;
Oh, culture, this is thy shame! 
I hardly knew her, but she came and told me everything - the great brute of a husband parading his pride in two-timing her, and her inability to tell anyone about it
