Mr. Peppercorn and his tidy wife

I can stay awake all night, I will need to be—
Cold as a fish, without a warm kettle.
Dead tired, moonlight envelops me,
A rye concoction, ugly to my innards;
My thoughts begin to decompose.

I must find the key, the door, I will try and walk
The white line like chalk on a sidewalk;
Quietly, quietly as the bottle and glass
Jostle with each other; what is all that commotion?
Oh, nothing my dear— must be an inebriated mouse.

You must dispose of it— feed it to the cat!
Perhaps, but some things of this world are indigestible.
Whose labor not yet gone awry,
My blithe, tidy young wife enters the peddler’s domain;
A hairpin has conquered a lock with its spidery jaws.

In the still of the night, I could not woo her;
Armed with hatchet and broom,
My copper creation, my courtship with lightning,
Was disposed of in a dustbin with a wide, metal mouth.
Nightly now, I attend temperance meetings.

Copyright © 03/24/2019 lance sheridan®

Mr. Peppercorn and his tidy wife