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 ;)