My Kingpin Baby

In the cold of night, you think of ways to die
as you do in darkness when the dog snores hard,
and the duvet yet again has said bye-bye,
as each tender, or rough, tug she’ll disregard.

So what about a gun and a blood smacked wall
so tears and wailing voice cry, ‘Oh forgive me my love.’
But then you wonder on what market stall
are cowboy guns sold so you bowl her a shove.

Suddenly, you’re back to the days you bowled:
the crash, the thump and tingle in your heart,
as you saw what she rocked and felt what she rolled
and you’d thought, ‘I will have a slice of that tart.’

So you get up and find the sharpest knife
to banish death by duvet spilt, and warm your life.

The Poetorialist

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