Why is a man so oft inclined, to fiddle, fix and fuss?
The inclination sticks to him like a sailor to a cuss.
He wakes up in the morning and his fingers start to twitch,
with the urge to drive a nail or screw; it’s incurable - an itch.
So one fine day he grabs that box - the one marked “handyman”
and starts to do some “fixing,” though he rarely has a plan.
Soon there’s holes where none belong and tools scattered ‘round
Poor Rover’s run and hid in fear, he’s nowhere to be found.
The Mrs. is quite tolerant - well, at least she is at first,
she offers him a beer or two, to quench his hard-earned thirst.
He slams ‘em down and grabs one more - pretty soon he thinks he’s cool.
No project is to much for him, ‘cause he’s got a POWER TOOL!
The little woman of the house, (he DARES to call her that),
has seen it all before and she knows just where it’s at.
He’ll over-rev that power tool ‘cause he loves the growling noise,
he’ll become a little boy again, playing with his toys.
So while he’s full of bluster and has a grin upon his mug,
she simply grabs the power cord and gives a little tug.
Mr. Fixit stares in utter shock at the silence in his hand,
he can’t believe it failed him - it was a macho brand!
She says, “honey, take it back, to the home improvement store,
I’m sure they will exchange it; surely, they have more.”
As he drives his truck away, she tidies up the place,
and thinks about the man she loves, with a smile on her face.