Like something rescued from a vet
The fixed notice penalty I’ll have to pay
She may be the hollow in the bed
That causes me to butt my head
Sliding to her side instead
The chill I feel as she steals all the duvet
She, whose yoghurt’s bought to combat yeast,
May have the fragrance of a beast
Like rutting goats or flocks of geese
That settle on my car just when it’s waxed
The reversing mirror of my dream
Where things are larger than they seem
That make me turn and want to scream
The reason why my credit cards are maxed
She who always stands out in a crowd
With both voice and clothes that are so loud
Leopard spots with zebra stripes
Her arse and mouth that are so vast
And from each there comes a blast
Like rockets fired from organ pipes
She, the reason my B.P. needs screening
A life without pain has no meaning
Was once said by Schopenhauer
Perhaps he met her, I don’t know
But where she goes I’ve got to go
The marriage vows have said so
The meaning of my life is she… she…
(Death be my release…)
(Photo (c) Mashline/Aleksander Kuki, fair-use low-resolution copy not for profit.)
I feel sick!
ReplyDeleteIs that what you wanted?