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The following poem was written at the request of my wife and it is intended to be ‘gently mocking’ in its style. 
The reader MUST stroll though it for that purpose alone. 


A long time ago, when with my mother, I went
On a shopping trip in which many hours were spent
Unto myself a secret promise I made
Never would I, with a woman, through malls and boutiques wade.

This promise, fifteen years since, has now been broken
For the spirit of Eros was within me awoken
So, now, with marital bliss, I treasure the joys of family life
And I also shudder at the time I spend shopping with my wife. 

She bothers NOT about the hands of the clock
Which, with their boisterous ticking, do me mock
As I bite my fingers and chew my nails
While wifey darling shops with a patience that never fails. 


My practice of ‘walk in, pick up and then walk out’
Is now one of ‘walk in, darling, and let us walk about’
And so, she does – with a slow and steady gait
While I gaze at mannequins and ponder my fate

Safe and secure, in cosy comfort, hardly disturbed
My wallet is NOT in the least bit perturbed
For he knows that his services will not be needed
Until through PRICE, CHOICE, TRIALS, his mistress has weeded

The objects that she might finally desire
And yet not necessarily – right then – acquire
For further weeding must surely be done
If shopping, for Elizabeth dear, is any fun.

Always, there lies a BUT on these shopping trips
A rationale with which I have yet to come to grips
For after careful analysis of textures, patterns and colour schemes
Wifey darling holds – lovingly – the object of her dreams

BUT – this contrariness to rhyme and reason
Is the perpetual refrain to our shopping season
For, though the texture may be perfect the colour just right
In a tiny spot, the design is not to her delight

So, even if an item is picked up – and to the counter taken
One must forgive me – if I’m sadly mistaken
In thinking that I can now move on – something has been bought
For, with a BUT, it might just be placed – back in its original spot.

Thus, Elizabethan shopping in all its royal splendour – and courtly grace
Can hardly be confined – limited – to a few hours space. 
It takes more than mere days, weeks and months instead
For wifey girl to savour her shopping spread.

And, though dear reader, this verse may now come to an end
For me, the rest of my life I must hereafter spend
With plodding upon my weary way
As the curfew tolls the knell of another shopping day.
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