The Wife's Reply Poem by David McLansky

He prays before my simple coffin
(As cheap in death as life quite often!)
Pious, grieving on his knees,
How the widows must be pleased.


He often knelt beside my bed
His sleeping bride, this man I wed;
I gave him snores for all his prayers,
He thought me sleeping, unaware;


All his fondles in the dark
Aroused no fires, no tiny sparks;
And his obsession with my breasts
Deprived me of my rightful rest!


I married him for his name,
He had no reason to complain;
Why else a woman trim and pretty
Marries one so old and giddy?


I gave him exactly what he wanted,
But he was greedy, I often taunted;
He got his share of motel sex;
He had no reason to be vexed;


He was a drooling, kissing bore;
I gave and gave, he wanted more;
All the weird and whacked positions;
(He was a priest without the mission!)


At first I liked the attention
Especially at those Priest conventions;
The Bishop with his deooping eye,
I squeezed his balls right through his fly.


Ultimately, it was all a bore:
Parishioners all hours at the door;
Asking him his sage advice!
He who couldn't please his wife.


My God, he was so poorly paid!
(His rewared was getting laid!)
I've never had an ounce of luck!
Women always end up stuck!


And all yhose boring priest's wife chores!
Teas and raffles, the door to doors;
And Sundays were the worst of all!
The cheap perfeums, the rabbit shawls!


The endless smiles, that fake 'God Bless'
The nervous peaks down my front dress;
I'd rather have been any place at all
(Especially the Holland Mall) :


I'm glad I'm dead and done with him;
Tired of having to give in;
At least I'll finally get some rest;
(Unless of course He loves big breasts!)