What's Wrong (My Dear)?

Don't Ask, in A Minor

“What’s wrong, my dear?”
“It’s nothing”, comes the chill of her reply.
“You seem quite tense…”
“I’m fine.” 
My mouth is suddenly quite dry.

“Are you sure?”
“Just leave it!”, as confusion settles in.
I’m petrified,
I’m scared!
I think that I’ll inform my next of kin.

“There’s something up..!”
The silence clatters through the air.
“Is it me?”
And bang… 
…I get the power of her glare.

“Did I not flush,
Or leave the loo seat open far too wide?
Is there some hair?
Oh my…
…is there a pube upon the side?”

“Perhaps I snored?
Is that it, did I keep you from your sleep?
You’re looking tired..
…no, no!”
I’m digging oh so very deep

“Look, tell me now,
Was it something that I may have done?”
I wait a while,
Oh fuck,
She’s pulling out a bloody gun!

“Please, darling dear,
I beg of you, before you shoot me dead;
Just let me know
My crime…
…Or was it something that I said?”

She stares at me
And casts me down upon the fires of Hell
And as I die,
She smiles
And breathes, “I think you know quite well!”

About the Author

Benedict Francis

Benedict Francis

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