Sometimes a man will try to “do the romance” through cryptic verse—this is “poetry”.
He will forward this to a human female of choice, hoping its romantic witticisms will make the lady swoon and fling herself at him in lust and/or psychotic rage.
Today’s human woman is having such an issue, for her husband is forever blowing bubbles. Sorry, we mean writing stuff.
The Heroic Poet
You all right? I’m Patricia. I’m 19 and my third husband, Simon (“Si”), is a nice bloke. But he’s really getting on my tits sending me his shit poetry all the time! Morning, noon, and night he’s emailing, texting, and phoning me to do his thing. Here’s an example from an hour ago: Babe I am so much in love with you, That I had to go off and do a really big poo, Now I’m cooking it up in a stew, While thinking only of you. What is this?! Does he reckon it’s romantic? He got a D in English Lit at school and thinks he’s dead clever because all his mates failed outright and are now resitting the test. But it just keeps on coming! 33 poems last week alone. Here’s another one: Babe when I look into your eyes, I think you’re a sight for sore eyes, Because I really like your eyes, It makes me wish you had four eyes. He called that one “Four Eyes Bitch” and I thought he was mocking me because I have to wear glasses. Whatever, I mean I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but unless he stops this I’m going to end up kicking his face in or something. Especially when he sends me stuff like this: Babe once we’ve had kids, I promise to you I’ll no longer tell no more fibs, Even if you’re cooking up spare ribs, Which will mean buying a load of extra bibs, Even for when tea is just potato chips. I’m gonna have to just say to him, “Look, babe, it’s real sweet you’re sending me these incredibly disturbing bits of poetry, but if you don’t stop I’m gonna report you to the cops!” What do you reckon? Or should I just punch him until he stops? Or divorce him?!? I really like this guy, Barry, at the local shop. He looks like a good husband and he don’t even know what poetry is. I asked him and he said, “What’s pottery? That’s for girls, innit?” Anyway, what do you think? Ta, Patricia
“Oh, but oh. But, but, oh. Oh, but, but, oh, but, but oh.” Richard Richard, Bottom 1995.
As you can see, Patricia (we’ll calling you Pat from now on, because it makes us think of cow pats—and that’s funny) many men are excellent at poetry.
Many men are excellent at pottery, too. Pottery poetry should really be a thing, come to think of it. But we digress.
If you find his writing deeply distressing then it’s perhaps best to challenge him to a poetry-off. As in, write him rubbish poetry back until he grows as disturbed as you are. For example:
I’m married to this guy called Si,
He’s about as good looking as a butter pie,
And he gets really upset when I jab him in the eye.
Hand him that on a bit of paper and when he goes, “Babe, what? You never jab me in the eye?” Then you jab him in the eye with your index finger.
If he complains, tell him he’s a “precious snowflake” and you only want to be with a “real man”. Then you can divorce him and marry Barry.
Sound like a good plan? Or would you rather cook a nice flan? In a newly rented caravan? Whatever, Pat, maybe just sort your own messes out in future, yeah? What do you think we are, an agony aunt?