A singing tradition without the battle of the sexes would be a poor thing, but that last verse has long struck me as one-sided. I have endeavored to imagine the other side, and it has proven popular in some company:

My husband never tires of lying around.
He drinks like a fish, and he sings like a hound,
He eats like a pig and makes love like a troll,
And the day he drops dead, I will fathom the bowl.