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Was it Music
My God it was dark, where am I now?
That music’s familiar, but I don’t know how,
Is that a choir,the church ain’t that near,
I shouldn’t be able, to hear it from here,
I know my hearings, never been the best,
Thank you whomever, for this peace and rest,
It‘s beautiful, soprano, so soft and alone,
But it goes alto, and then baritone,
I couldn’t believe,the range of the voice,
I wanted it louder, but I had no choice,
Had to be opera, a choir was singing,
Was that a triangle, that I heard ringing,
Up and down now, the sweet singing goes,
Sometimes very faint, then strong crescendos,
Suddenly I was shaken, my music turned to Rap!
I was startled awake, with the blap,blap, blap,
My God Where was I,this couldn’t be real,
Was this my recliner head rest that I feel,
My wife was cleaning, and the singing I heard,
Was a whining old motor,man that’s absurd,
But her loud voice of anger, God it couldn’t be meaner ,
The rubber belt broke, on her old Vacuum cleaner!
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Ron
Here's a scenario to combat HW's broken vocal chords: Start packing your belongings and print ever larger laser pan cards: "FOR SALE". HW will want to know what you're up to. Say you're moving house. Buying up Howard Hawk's mansion on Sunset Boulevard. HW might reach for her portable to call Rabid Animal Removal Squad. Stay cool. Stick "for sale" prints on glass windows. HW will have much explaining to do - when she walks the dog - to inquisitive neighbours. She might relent and say: "With what? You buy mansion with piddling peanut poems?" Stay cool and utter: "With BRAINS ! Lady !" She might snicker. That's to be expected. Then, casual-like say, if HW is stuck for a hideout: You'll be glad to make room in the servants' quarters for HW if she accepts to be at your beck and call 24/24-7/7.
HW might get the jitters and wonder if some neurons and synapses might have gone haywire. Never you mind. Just keep packing. HW will then pull out her TRUMP Card. "You know I should have pulled you up on that RAPE charge on the conjugal bed - what-was-it - 50... 60 years ago!"
That's the style these days with Women's Lib. Tell HW you got the means to engage a certain Minister of Justice to defend you. Until a few weeks ago, he was a lawyer who got diehard crooks off the hook: to be exact 287 of them ! until President of the Rap/Rep. appointed him to get the top brass off the hook. HW will start thinking you mean business. POEMS do PAY !
HW might try to get down on her knees to beg pardon. At that moment, wrap yourself in the dignified air of aloofness and pretend you have no need for respect or appreciation from the fairer sex. That'll learn them ! - Okay, Tom ? Just try this scenario out to save long-suffering face.
Every good wish.