Perhaps you feel a sudden burst of low and deadly dudgeon,
And find it is imperative to rid your life of males:
But do you pick a gun, an axe, a noose, a giant bludgeon?
Of course not. You’ll be subtler when you’re heading off the rails.
For instance placing Superglue upon his chosen sofa
And making sure the zapper is three inches out of reach,
Or leaving him to fight it out with a beaver or a gopher,
Or offering him a cocktail which is mainly liquid bleach.
You make him hair extensions in his sleep, and when he wakes,
And tugs at them, the roof caves in and crushes him to dust,
Or leave him trays of peanuts, and the seventh one he takes
Is pure sulphuric acid, so his stomach starts to rust.
Take him to the seaside, where you chain him to a grotto,
And listen as the waves pour in and fill it to the brim,
Or say he’s had a stroke of luck and won the Irish Lotto,
But burn a ticket teasingly, just as you’re telling him.
Or send him off to Thailand with some smack inside his wallet,
Or leave him on safari when the night is loud and wild,
Or leave him with some talking books as written by Ken Follett,
Or best of all, you fix it so he has to bear your child.
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