Can of Worms
I find I have no antidote for your ogreish moods.
I can’t dispel your fury and the dark cloud it exudes.
Nothing can dissuade you from your atrocious mood.
It is your obligation to sit there and to brood.
I try to draw you out the door to take a little walk—
to absorb the joys of nature, for a picnic and a talk,
but your mood is much too durable to fall apart so easily.
It cannot be deflected by cajoling made so breezily.
If I drew a stat sheet on these redundant snits
that are bound to come on weekly and soon turn into fits,
the graph would be predictable, with bad moods every Monday—
ironically, that day you’ve set aside and call your funday.
It’s that day you go out feeling fine and come home feeling sick—
that day that you go fishing with your brother Rick
who always catches bigger fish than those that choose your hook—
the ones that you throw back and don’t bring home for me to cook.
So, all-in-all, my gloomy spouse, the thing that I’ve been wishing
is that you’d suspend your bouts of familial fishing.
Stay home with me and prove to me that you’re my sexy man,
and we can dine on tunafish straight out of a can!!!