You breakfast, lunch and tea and sup,
hardly ever getting up.
I say that we should take a ride
just to get us both outside,
and thus do I precipitate
a lively marital debate—
you flummoxed by my rude suggestion
that interferes with your digestion.
So I employ another means
to distract you from your franks and beans.
Feeling youthful and impulsive,
I chance your finding it repulsive
and suggest that we go dancing
and perhaps do some romancing,
whereupon you rise and shriek
that your demise I surely seek.
Dancing at our advanced age?
You spit and sputter, in a rage,
and since for minutes you don’t pause,
at least you exercise your jaws.