“This, that, and the other,” she said.
“You speak like a man who’d prefer to be dead.”
To which I replied, “My, dear, it’s quite true.
I’ve wanted to die ever since I met you.”
“Foul!” cried she, “a good man speaks not,
Nor does he forget those things he forgot.”
I countered with statements that angered her yet,
And finished by saying, “I never forget
Those things you think I’ve forgotten by now.
I choose to ignore them, and I’ll tell you how.”
“Nay,” she spoke, with tones quite encumbered
By knowledge of how her years have been numbered
By false reports of truer intentions,
And whispers of me and my wicked inventions.
“Pray,” I began, “please tell me true.
How long has it been since you visited the loo?”
“Impertinent!” said she, “I now wash my hands
Of you and your pipes and your carnal demands.”
“Alas,” said I, “I couldn’t be gladder
To see you depart for your god and his ladder.
Oh, and before you leave me and mine,
Tell that wench to bring me more wine.”
Taken from my book, In Absentia, A Book of Poems and Verses.