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.