MARRIED TO THE SLOB

 

I might have guessed that us two living together

would drive me to the end of my tether;

it’s not that I’m obsessive-compulsive

but this is repulsive.

 

If you would occasionally close a cupboard door

that’s what they’re for.

And not soak dirty dishes in the sink

where they stink;

now we’ve got something posher;

let me introduce you to the dishwasher.

 

When you spend all Sunday with the papers, you loafer,

try not to wipe your newsprinty hands on the sofa.

And the antique table’s not the place for your beer can and banana skin.

We have a bin.

 

You can leave the toilet seat up, like other men

but could you learn to flush it, now and then?

 

No, it’s not my business if you treat your car like a wheelie bin,

except when I have to move old newspapers, till receipts, apple cores, shoes, half-sucked sweets and dead biros before I can get in.

 

If you hung your keys on this handy hook

you would know where to look.

(I know, now, not to try to be of use

and get treated to a mouthful of abuse.)

And the keys are not alone:

sometimes it’s your glasses, your work security tag or your mobile phone.

 

I’m not sure how long I should feel so encumbered

before I tell you that your days are numbered.

I never wanted to be this in life;

a nagging wife.

 

Oh, and if you’re trying to improve the situation,

DON’T bring me flowers from the petrol station.