The poem
Each morning as I catch my bus, A-fearing I'll be late, I think: there are in all of us Two folks quite separate; As one I greet the office staff With grim, official mien; The other's when I belly-laugh, And Home Sweet Home's the scene.
I've half a hundred men to boss, And take my job to heart; You'll never find me at a loss, So well I play my part. My voice is hard, my eye is cold, My mouth is grimly set; They all consider me, I'm told, A "bloody martinet."
But when I reach my home at night I'm happy as a boy; My kiddies kiss me with delight, And dance a jig of joy. I slip into my oldest cloths, My lines of care uncrease; I mow the lawn, unhook the hose, And glow with garden peace.
It's then I wonder which I am, the boss with hard-boiled eye, Or just the gay don't care-a-damn Go-lucky garden guy? Am I the starchy front who rants As round his weight he throws, or just old Pop with patchy pants, Who sings and sniffs a rose?