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.