Best Henpecked Poems
Do you dare to hear this story,
listen to the rant of a cuckold tale
This story will give you nightmares
if your masculinity has begun to fail
Despondent voice of said henpecked man
was recorded secretly at a support group therapy session
He swear he loves his wife,
don't know why he picked up the knife
Says he has a wonderful life,
but something is not quite right
Then he contradicts what he just said,
the reasons why are mixed up in his head
He confess that he just wanted to scare her ...
frighten her bad
But he wasn't too convincing,
she only started to laugh
She commanded him to put the knife down,
then started to throw her 130-pound weight around
Used sex as the ultimate weapon,
said love was going out of town ... indefinitely
He said he begged like never before,
pleading with her to please don't leave out the door
Said she just slapped his pride on the backside,
told him the bank account was gonna take a nosedive
Raised her eyebrows and gave a baleful stare,
then said he was having it too good
He said when she gets to talking like that,
he's learned over time not to say anything back
Letting out a small sigh, he said
he simply becomes a docile little boy
and go sit elsewhere
Says the only time he roars like a lion,
is when she tries to take away his adult toys
Trying to stop him from getting season tickets
is gonna cause him to make a lot of noise
So she just let him be for awhile,
let him calm down ... give him a warm smile
He said being henpecked ain't so bad,
he gets his favorite meal after breaking mad
Yet and still, he seemed kinda sad
Now that the group therapy is over,
he said his wife is gonna come get him
And make a point to remind him
of how he dresses so bad
That he's such a loser, just like her dad
“Time for a break. ‘She
calls out to me.’ Come in ‘She
says’ And make the tea.”
© Harry J Horsman 1993
Doreen acted like the brain of Britain
Answering questions on the TV quiz show
She would sit and shout out the answers
Her face would have a smug rosy glow
Her poor husband Harold could do nothing right
She would moan at him all night and day
Belittling him with her intelligent quips
‘Yes you’re right dear ‘was all Harold could say
Doreen decided she had such a high IQ
That she should get it tested
So she applied to join Mensa
So her intelligence could be attested
She told all her neighbours of her plans
They secretly stifled their yawn
For Doreen was always quoting new facts
She bored them from dusk until dawn
Harold drove her to where the test was being held
But five minutes later she suddenly appeared
Her face was like thunder, she screamed and she yelled
Had her results been worse than she’d feared
Sadly Doreen had not even got through the door
To her chagrin she’d gone on the wrong day
For someone so intelligent… she now looked a fool
You stupid cow was all that Harold could say.
Harold drove home and quickly packed his bags
He said he was going to stay with his mother
For he knew if he’d stayed in the house that night
His overbearing wife he’d be tempted to smother!
05~27~17
We were drinking in the Eagles Nest; a cozy little pub,
one Friday evening after work completed in the scrub.
Most of us are timber workers, who get paid on Friday night,
so we’re all cashed up and thirsty in a setting that’s just right.
There were six of us who formed a shout and mixed to socialize,
and as the beers were going down, glassy turned our eyes.
Tongues were loosening up a mite and too our rationale,
and hints were being thrown about by master card sharp Karl.
Karl’s the gambler we avoid he’d bet on two flies up a wall,
but when we’ve had a skin full and Karl begs a poker call,
fifty per cent will jump right in and claim themselves a seat,
and the rest are easily convinced, for grog does hide defeat.
So with Ron and John, plus Bill and Stan, I walk to Karl’s abode.
We’re all carrying two six packs that we surely will unload,
while we shuffle, deal and raise and show, or play a game of bluff,
to find out whom at poker holds the nerves of stronger stuff.
And as the night went deeper and the stubbies emptied out,
some were holding piles of money and one was now without.
Stan had squandered all his pay and now he looked a mite unstable,
but then to top his bad night off - Stan drops dead at the table.
At first we panicked seeing Stan but knew there’s nothing we could do,
and seeing that we’re full of booze we only had a short review.
It was suggested we should show respect now Stan has passed away.
We stood up for the next three hands and thanked Stan for his pay.
And when new dawn began to break, it was time to close the game,
Karl was quick to put his hand on Stan and then he did proclaim,
“One of youse walking home my friends must notify Stan’s wife.
Who will it be?” But no hand rose and Karl felt he’s in strife.
So it came down to drawing straws that Karl held in his hand.
When I plucked me piece of straw I plucked the one I never planned.
Karl stated I must be discreet, be gentle, and not to make things worse.
With me virtue for discretion at Stanley’s door I did converse.
Ums and Ahs were flowing freely ‘til at last me courage grew,
“Your husband Stan has lost his pay now he’s frightened to face you.”
She glared with eyes that proffered hate - “Tell the mongrel to drop dead!”
So I uttered as I turned away - “I’ll go and tell Stan what you said.”
HENPECKED
She’s written all over his back:
“Kick me” “loser”
She holds the reigns.
“Whoa… where do you think your going?!”
His children walk over his cobblestone back
With their ten pound clown shoes
Those aching feet whine endlessly:
“Father, I need more money!”
He gallops to the pub
And drinks the dregs of sin.
Spends his own hammer and nails,
They shake in his brown ale.
He returns home when he’s nowhere
Near sober, says his prayers whilst in his coma.
The bed squeaks with all his flaws,
His wife doesn’t feel him at all.
She nails herself to a 10 foot cross
Though she keeps sliding down.
Neither nails nor ropes will keep her.
The children burn the wood in effigy.
“Ring-a-round the roses,” they sing
Trying to fit into each little chair.
The psychiatrist just scratches his chin.
And ka-ching, the sound of alms for him.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017