A poem …

Living With An Ogre My man's like living with an ogre I think: “Let's get romantic. I'll just make A candle out of some of my ear-wax.” It's laughable, that's just my take. I sit on the couch like a Chinese princess. He lumbers in, dick and beer in hand. He grabs me and throws me over his shoulder Yeah, well he's an ogreish kind of man. It's November, our pear tree has tiny little pears Its twisted branches are otherwise bare. It's like our love, there's nothing left But love's fruit hanging in the air. What will it be, my sweet daddy ogre? You don't love my poems, you're glad when they're over.