Have performed this one live many times and thort after browsing thro some excellent, but depressing poems that we could all do with a laff. Whats even funnier is... we are now happily divorced

 

COMPOST.

 

Why do I love him?

I'st years of customised interior decor,

D.I.Y. for external romance?

His bouquet has changed,

heaven turned toxic, distilled by grime.

Mine nose once so keen has begun to fell,

feels more than pheremones smart mine eyes.

Forsooth,

familiarity breeds compost.

 

Why do I love him,

when his most odourous parts skulk skunk,

part toeless and heelless in soft crunchy bunches,

flout years of nag badger to lurk and fester

in dark corners from the laundry retreats,

along with their owner, water-solvent part-time,

and like us,

they're never a matching pair?

 

Why do I love him?

Cos he's there?

Yes,

cos he's there in the morning when I'm subtly grumpy,

overtly non verbal, drowned in coffee I mumble,

The washing, blue white cleanish slumps

mouldily drying in a basket for days.

He sees my lying enthusiasm, knows

mine ego is dying along with

grey hair that sprouts defiant in face of

youthful dreams and non domestic schemes.

I shallst abandon the laundry and

lose thine socks to find mineself

and he whineths,

'more work for me but good'onya slapper!'

 

Why do I love him?

Mine compost grows

the best roses.