Flex some muscle, flash a wicked grin.
Pout and moan about how long it’s been.
Or…
Wail and cry… or beg and plead.
Snarl and scratch, watch myself bleed.
Or…
I could be silent, stare her down.
I could be quiet, fix her a frown.
Or…
Open her mail, throw it around.
Call her fat, “ one round mound.”
Or…
Drive off, take it somewhere.
Spin it on Facebook, spread it everywhere.
Or…
Plot a payback, less than a crime.
Cover her undies with gun oil and grime.
Or…
I could be steadfast, insistent and firm.
I could plot murder, body on the berm.
But…
I do none of that, no, not at all.
I give her my back and walk down the hall.
And then…
I take out the trash... myself.
5 comments:
Funny, Ben. It's been a rotten day -- I needed a good laugh:)
Ah, Ben. You always make me smile.
Sounds like grandson Justin. He finally takes it out, but I don't know how much of that other he thinks beforehand.
LOL, Ben. I needed a good laugh.
That was definitely cute. I must try that on my husband, who never takes out the trash. But he is very good in other areas, so I keep him around.
Helen
Straight From Hel
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