The Poet’s Wife
Wife grumbles all day through:
“Just look, writes poems, idiot!
His brain’s got really crooked.
The house needs fixing up a lot.
You should’ve planted the garden
The Spring is in its prime”.
The husband howled: “Pardon,
My Spring’s a winter time! ”
Her grumbling makes him mad.
He’s feeling so queasy,
That he doesn’t write, feels bad.
The life of the Poet isn’t easy.
As soon as the wife’s mood changes
The Poet becomes an Angel.
Toils all Summer and Autumn
And can’t lift up his bottom.
His wife seems to have changed.
She is no more a stranger.
Becomes again his own:
To be plucked, sniffed, and thrown.
But with the Winter’s coming
The Poet writes still more.
The wife renewed her humming:
“I’ve got myself a bore! ”