Poetry

Men, we are Gods tortured souls
Women, the source of the scouge of our desire
We do not care if on our death
Were tossed into hells fire

For those who’ve braved a womans wrath
Know the Devil is a Doddle
And to the scorching flames he
Will quite happily toddle1

The bins are out, but at the wrong time
And we haven’t done the dishes
But those that do are scorned as fools
Or wimps, but for us to do it she wishes....’

We’ve to be men and be macho:
Show our feminine side and cry -
But do that in front of family or friends
And the lady wishes she would die!

Answer her bum DOES look big in that
Shell through a tantrum and huff
Lie and tell her shes lovely...
It still is not enough...

Catch you "reading" Page 3
She’ll swear and call the girl a slut
Then you hear her tell her friends
She wishes she was there showing her butt!

You cant cook like an Italian
Or like a Parisian kiss
But dare you do the dinner
She’ll want to give it a miss

You try to be romanitc
She tell you your a fool
She tells you you look stupid
When you try to look cool.

She dont like your beer belly
Or how you gobble your grub
She dont like your boozing mates
Yet wants you to bring her boozin to the pub.

She dont like you getting rowdy
And gives out when admiring short skirts you start
Then in front of the publican
And your mates she wallpos the girl while screaming "Tart!"

Yes. women thay are a puzzle
You ask why they exist
But if they were to disappear tomorrow
They (or the jiggy jiggy, cooking, cleaning, scrubbing, smiling, comforting, mammying, would be missed!