#hate songs

Butterflies

I hate Men; They irritate me.

I There are the Serious Thinkers-- There ought to be a law against them. They see life, as through shell-rimmed glasses, darkly. They are always drawing their weary hands Across their wan brows. They talk about Humanity As if they had just invented it; They have to keep helping it along. They revel in strikes And they are eternally getting up petitions. They are doing a wonderful thing for the Great Unwashed-- They are living right down among them. They can hardly wait For "The Masses" to appear on the newsstands, And they read all those Russian novels-- The sex best sellers.

II There are the Cave Men-- The Specimens of Red-Blooded Manhood. They eat everything very rare, They are scarcely ever out of their cold baths, And they want everybody to feel their muscles. They talk in loud voices, Using short Anglo-Saxon words. They go around raising windows, And they slap people on the back, And tell them what they need is exercise. They are always just on the point of walking to San Francisco, Or crossing the ocean in a sailboat, Or going through Russia on a sled-- I wish to God they would!

III And then there are the Sensitive Souls Who do interior decorating, for Art's sake. They always smell faintly of vanilla And put drops of sandalwood on their cigarettes. They are continually getting up costume balls So that they can go As something out of the "Arabian Nights." They give studio teas Where people sit around on cushions And wish they hadn't come. They look at a woman languorously, through half-closed eyes, And tell her, in low, passionate tones, What she ought to wear. Colour is everything to them--everything; The wrong shade of purple Gives them a nervous breakdown.

IV Then there are the ones Who are Simply Steeped in Crime. They tell you how they haven't been to bed For four nights. They frequent those dramas Where the only good lines Are those of the chorus. They stagger from one cabaret to another, And they give you the exact figures of their gambling debts. They hint darkly at the terrible part That alcohol plays in their lives. And then they shake their heads And say Heaven must decide what is going to become of them-- I wish I were Heaven!

I hate Men; They irritate me.

I hate Actors; They ruin my evenings.

There are the Juveniles; The Male Ingenues. They always interpret the rôles of wealthy young sportsmen, So that they can come running on in white flannels, Carrying tennis racquets, and wearing spiked shoes. Whenever the lights go up They are discovered with their arms around some girl. They wear their watches and handkerchiefs on their arms, And they simply couldn’t play a scene without their cigarette cases. They think that the three Greatest Names in American History Are Hart, Schaffner, and Marx. They are constantly giving interviews to the Sunday papers Complaining about the car-loads of mash notes they receive. They know they have it in them to do something Really Big; They relate how Belasco told them that they would go far— I wish they were on their way!

There are the Movie Heroes; The Boys Who Drove the Wild West Wild. They are forever fading out into the sunset, And if they can’t pose for a close-up every few feet They sue the company. They wear their hair bobbed, And always look as if they dressed by mail. They were never known to lose a fight; The whole troupe of supernumeraries hasn’t a chance against them. They are just bubbling over with animal spirits— They are continually walking up the side of houses, Or springing from one galloping horse to another, Or leaping out of balloons, without parachutes. And they love to be photographed balancing on one foot On the extreme edge of the Grand Canyon,— Oh, that I might get behind them, just once!

Then there are the Tragedians; The Ones Who Made Shakespeare famous. They are always telling what they used to say to Booth. And they talk about the old traditions As if they had collaborated on them. They make their positively last appearance, semi-annually, And they are just about to go on farewell tour No. 118397, Series H. They never appear in any rôle In which they have to wear long trousers. If they stooped to play in any drama written after 1700, They know that Art could never be the same. They are forever striding around the stage in trick tempests, Wearing aluminum armor, and waving property swords, And shrieking at Heaven to do its worst,— I wish Heaven would kindly oblige.

And there are the Drawing-Room Stars; The Ones That Swing a Mean Tea-Cup. They always appear in those dramas In which the Big Line is “;No cream, please—lemon.” They interpret every emotion By tapping the left thumb-nail with the cork-tipped cigarette. They are invariably the best-dressed men on our stage,— Their press-agent says so himself. They are always standing in the center of the stage Saying cutting things about marriage; And they hang around in property moonlight, Making middle-aged love. They cherish secret ambitions To take off their cutaways and play Hamlet; They know they could be great If the public would only give them their just due,— If it only would! 

I hate Actors; They ruin my evenings.

I hate Slackers; They get on my nerves. There are the Conscientious Objectors. They are the real German atrocities. They go around saying, "War is a terrible thing", As if it were an original line. They take the war as a personal affront; They didn't start it—and that lets them out. They point out how much harder it is To stay at home and take care of their consciences Than to go and have some good, clean fun in a nice, comfortable trench. They explain that it isn't a matter of mere bravery; They only wish they had the chance to suffer for their convictions— I hope to God they get their wish! Then there are the Socialists; The Professional Bad Sports. They don't want anybody to have any fun. If anybody else has more than two dollars, They consider it a criminal offense. They look as if the chambermaid forgot to dust them. There is something about their political views That makes them wear soiled decolleté shirts, And they are too full of the spirit of brotherhood To ask any fellow creature to cut their hair. They are always telling their troubles to the New Republic; And are forever blocking the traffic with parades. If anyone disagrees with them They immediately go on strike. They will prove—with a street corner and a soap box— That the whole darned war was Morgan's fault— Boy, page an alienist. There are the Pacifists; They have chronic stiff necks From turning the other cheek, They say they don't believe in war— As if it were Santa Claus or the Stork. They will do anything on earth to have peace Except go out and win it. Of course they are the only people Who disapprove of war; Everybody else thinks it's perfectly great— The Allies are only fighting Because it keeps them out in the open air They know that if we'd all go around wearing lilies, And simply refusing to fight, The Kaiser would take his army and go right back home. It's all wrong, Pershing, it's all wrong. And then there are the Men of Affairs; The ones who are too busy to fight. Business is too good, And men aren't needed yet, anyway— Wait till the Germans come over here. They tell you it would be just their luck To waste three or four months in a training camp, And then have peace declared. It isn't as if they hadn't dependents; Their wives' relatives can barely buy tires for the Rolls-Royce. Of course, they may be called in the draft, But they know they can easily get themselves exempted, Because they have every symptom of hay fever— I wish I were head of the draft board! I hate Slackers; They get on my nerves.

--Dorothy Parker