A Womanís Poem

He didnít like the curry
And he didnít like my cake.
He said my biscuits were too hardÖ
Not like his mother used to make.


 


I didnít prepare the coffee right
He didnít like the stew,
I didnít mend his socks
The way his mother used to do.

I pondered for an answer
I was looking for a clue.
Isnít there anything I could do
To match his mothers shoe.

Then I smiled as I saw light
One thing I could definitely do
I turned around and slapped him tightÖ
Like his mother used to