Skip to main content

Eyes fixed on the idiot box,

Glued to the sofa like an immobile ox,

The man of the house demanded a mango,

Which I acknowledged with just a raised eyebrow. 

Out came the daggers in their finest sheen,

When the lissom lass winked from the screen.

She held the king of the fruit,

Like a Swiss bank’s precious loot. 

She ran her tongue over the trickle.

Eww! I said, looking at her dribble.

Wow! He retorted, called it the pure romance,

As he watched it in a state of trance.

The pressure cooker let out a loud whistle,

And I dashed, plucking from my chin a tiny bristle.

The shrivelled mango pleaded for salvation,

And so, without a moment’s hesitation,

I dumped the king in the trash,

Feeling like a queen draped in a silken sash.

My eyes had a slight twitch.

Man! No wonder, it’s called the seven-year itch. 

One Comment

Leave a Reply