Blots

|Tick Away|

Tick away, O clock, tonight,

My bedroom smells of solitude,

My biggest critic yonder lies,

Interred in rakes and polished shoes.

A slush echoes around these walls,

As I pour water in my mug,

My brain is raw, and clear to paint

A poem without drink or hiccup.

A constant beam of soothing light

Is rippling through my supple nerves,

And coaxing out my inward thoughts,

And nudging forth my latent words.

My judging soul is kept at bay,

Way down in the garden shed,

I plan to plough the earth all day,

And drop my better half to rest.

Come, venture forth as I describe

The story of my bludgeoned wife.

~•■•~

"It's all your fault!" She'd screamed at me,

That I didn't have a scrap of heart,

That bounced attachment back at her,

That loved her 'till death did us part'.

She was as good a wife to me,

As worries are comrades to thought,

She sewed, and washed, and fed, and loved-

And ne'er a penny back she sought.

~•■•~

And then she turned insane, you know,

She screamed at me for hours on end,

While I consoled her through her tears

And tried to shake her into sense.

It wasn't under my control

To find my guard so well undone,

It was, you see, entirely she,

That should be blamed for my stepson.

~•■•~

My wife refused to see my way,