Home Sweet Home

Once a year we have an anniversary celebration
a chance to prove Cupid is a liar
because after you propose,
based on that expected nuptial thunder and earthquake,
the years prove his public relations
for this wedding bless
is a lot of pure, fertilized exaggeration.

Frankly, all that romancing
with such testosterone driven preparation,
followed by plenty of booze for some seductive hydration,
don’t quite result in those fantasy nights
filled with countless chances at some writhing ejaculation.

Oh the fluctuation in “come and get me”
with countless, “not tonight I’ve got a headache,”
just ruins that testicle functional feel.

And that diamond given with I do,
loses its honeymoon luster
before that time is even through.

What you get is compromise,
which looks a lot like being henpecked,
leaving the only thing you get to clasp with regularly,
instead of some firm supple mound,
is a bag when you have to take out to the trash.

The purpose of marriage
you thought was about steamy eves of passion
ends up making you smile at the emasculation in your castle
that is really her plantation.

Settling for liters of coffee and pop
to subdue the blue balls effect,
while she happily is spouting,
using some caustic punctuation,
all the reasons you have to be so enslaved
after that one night of getting lucky
lead to her pregnancy dilation.

We call it home sweet home,
having debt as the only form
of regularly being screwed.