Perfect
The old guy at the bar was looking desolate and sad,
I noticed that he shed a quiet tear,
his shoulder slump reminded me of dear departed Dad,
I walked on over to him with my beer.
I sat down on a stool, picked up my glass and had a sip,
“You got a problem, mate? Are you okay?”
I guessed his age at ninety, and he said with shaking lip:
“I wed a twenty-one year old, last May.”
“Oh, dear. I see your problem,” I replied and had a drink,
“those May-December marriages don’t work -
you treat her like a Princess, buy her emeralds and mink,
and all she does is treat you like a jerk!”
“Oh no, it’s not like that,” he sobbed, “we’re happy as can be,
she doesn’t ask me for a single thing,
she has her own large income and she spends it all on me,
the darling lady treats me like a King!”
“I guess she’s ugly then,” I said, “a female dinosaur,”
“No, no,” he cried, “she’s beautiful and sweet,”
“She’s fat?” I asked, “a bum so big it won’t fit through the door?”
“She’s perfect,” he replied, “and quite petite!”
“It must be sex,” I told him, “is she frigid, hard and cold?”
“The opposite!” the poor old codger said,
“most every night we practice what the Kama Sutra told,
she’s absolutely fabulous in bed!”
“So she can’t cook? She has a limp? Is blind or dumb or deaf?”
“No no, she’s perfect, everything I want,
I come home from the pub each day, she’s played the master chef,
so every night it’s like a restaurant!”
“Well everything sounds lovely, and I don’t know why you cry,
I don’t see any help that I can give.”
The old man gulped his beer, then let out a giant sigh,
he sobbed: “I can’t remember where I live!”
Author: Graeme King
