Next week, Lord willing, my little sweetheart and I will celebrate 31 years of wedded bliss. She was my child bride, and I’m her constant pain in the posterior. She rarely responds to my facebook foolishness, but this little poem most always gets a rise out of ‘er.
I washed the dog the other day,
And the Misses pitched a fit!
She claimed her precious kitchen sink
Had hair all over it.
She carried on for most an hour.
You should have heard ‘er howl,
And then she started in again
When she saw her kitchen towel.
Last night I greased the ’41,
Then cleaned ‘er up real neat.
I parked the ol’ truck in the barn
And went to the house to eat.
The Misses marched in blowin’ smoke,
And steaming, sure enough!
She grabbed me by the whiskers,
And led me out real rough!
She marched me to the laundry
And she fixed an icy stare
At my little pile of greasy rags
On her lacy underware.
I picked ‘er a big, ol’ bunch of flowers,
Them purple one that smell,
She hadn’t barely glimpsed ‘em
When she started in to yell.
I didn’t have no vase, of course,
So I used the best I’ve got.
I thought they looked real perty
In my grandma’s chamber pot.
I think the world of that ol’ gal.
And love to make ‘er smile,
And my most devoted efforts
Generally miss that by a mile.
It seems no matter what I do,
There just ain’t no relief.
The more I try and help ‘er out,
The more I cause ‘er grief!
She ain’t unhappy all the time.
Her discontent seems seasonal,
But I think it’s safe to say, sometimes,
The Misses is unreasonable.
I love you sweetheart. SC ;)