Marital Discretion

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Marital Discretion

"Does my bum look big in this dear?"
"Why, yes, it looks enormous,"
Not the phrase she wants to hear,
Unless you fancy homeless.

I do not

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I do not

A target of unholy wedlock
Was placed in a tight, lowly headlock
And dragged down the aisle,
Where, forcing a smile,
He swallowed a fistful of hemlock.

The News

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The News

We've got some news
for you both.
We held our 
collective breath.

Me and Claire
(posh was never 
our family thing)
are engaged
to be married.

Never say never,
our eldest son,
the best news ever.

At last, loves requited,
two families, united.
Parters for life,
husband and wife.

We wish them the best:
happiness, wealth,
a future together,
raise a glass to their health.

Better Half

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Better Half

She's my partner, my missus,
a slave to the dishes,
the woman who I must obey.
She's my better half, wife,
she's the bane of my life
and sometimes she's even risqué.

She's a kitchen Goddess
but her hair is a mess
and her relatives bore me to tears.
She's called her indoors.
I can't sleep for her snores,
how the heck have we gone fifty years!

She will analyse, criticise,
often she'll roll her eyes,
occasionally, she gets on my tits.
That's forced, it's a bloke thing,
of course, I am joking,
you do know I love her to bits.

Sound familiar?

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Sound familiar?

Cup of coffee, darling?
No thanks. Occupied.
Response a little tetchy,
was that a roll of eyes?

Here it is, my dear!
What's this?
Your cup of tea,
make it yourself next time,
don't go asking me!

But it was me who asked you!
You must think me green,
next time you want a cuppa,
say what you bloody mean!

Love and Marriage

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Love and Marriage

I am almost embarrassed to mention,
My wife's in receipt of a pension.
She was a young girl when I met her,
And every day, she gets better and better.

If we get to a hundred, of course,
I shall abandon all hope of divorce,
And if it's a hundred and ten,
We might even marry again!

The Cannibal

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 Cannibal 

Hannibal, the cannibal, 
Was munching on his lunch. 
He chewed the stew anew when told, 
His wife gave it the crunch. 

Mrs Hobbo’s Pressie

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Mrs Hobbo's Pressie

Mrs Hobbo were coming up forty,
A delicate age for a girl,
When bits of the body head southwards
And trimmings begin to unfurl.

To say she were touchy about it
Would only be tellin' the truth.
Hobbo needed to buy, summat special
To capture t'old lady's lost youth.

His brains, Hobbo racked for a fortneet,
What little he 'ad, any road,
Till Dauphy Dog come to the rescue,
Wi' a perfect idea, a la mode.

Sexy lingerie, that were the answer,
That's posh talk for knickers and bras.
Much better than Hobbo's suggestion
Of scotch and a box of cigars.

There were only one shop in all Keighley,
What 'ad necess'ry clout and finesse,
The shop were of course Mark's and Spencer's
What customers call M and S.

Hobbo, was required to do research,
Before he set foot in the store,
So, he waited till missus was shoppin'
Then rooted round 'knicker-wear drawer.

For her knickers, she'd need a size ten
And her bras were a thirty six C,
But I don't think she'd want that made public,
So, we'll keep it, between thee and me.

One bright early morning, in Winter
Hobbo sneaked 'issen in M and S.
He'd never bought undies before this,
And were under considerable stress.

Furtively looking about 'im,
He took from a pile, a wire basket.
Being virgin, he needed directions,
Being a man, he didn't dare ask it.

Finally, in 'knicker department,
And gobsmacked that there was so much
choice, he made 'is selection,
By looking, reluctant to touch.

Once he 'ad sussed what he wanted,
He bunged it in 'basket, right quick,
Walked to checkouts at far side of store,
Beginning to feel a bit sick.

By now, a long queue started building
As he waited to pay for 'is wares,
And Hobbo grew redder and redder,
Attractin' some giggles and stares.

Eventually, red as a beetroot,
He made it to front o' the queue,
And a glamorous girl on the checkout
Began putting 'purchases through.

By 'olding each item up caref'lly,
She checked all the sizes again,
Says,"Some of these knickers are twelves,
And some as you've picked, are a ten."

Ten is 'right size muttered Hobbo,
So she hands all the twelves to her mate,
To change at the far side of store,
As 'queue behind's getting irate.

Full forty yards, top of her voice,
Yells, "We don't have the tens in a white.
We 'ave got, grey, green or raspberry.
Would any of these be alright?"

Holding each item aloft,
For Hobbo to choose, mortified,
He mumbles that any will do,
And the queue behind Hobbo all sighed.

Luckily folks started laughing,
Not Hobbo, he wanted to hide,
Though once he were safely back home,
He started to see 'funny side.

Mrs Hobbo were pleased with her pressie,
Expecting, like last year, some socks,
But the next time that she 'ad a birthday,
She 'ad to make do wi' some chocs.

Royal Marriages

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Royal Marriages 

I've been married for fourty four years, 
And I don't go a bothering you. 
Stay out of the media then, my dears, 
It's the least little thing you can do.

The Way

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The way

You
said I do
forty four 
years ago.

Sixteen thousand
cooked meals
prepared
by you
for me
with love.

The
silent majority
were
wonderful.

A
vocal minority
beyond
delicious.

And your
truly special
platinum collection
made my
taste buds tango.

You didn't
find a way 
to my heart
you built
a culinary autobahn.
Merci ma cherie, je t'aime!

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