Although I like to keep most of my poems family-friendly, I occasionally my style drifts-off into a dark place, especially as I talk about uncomfortable subjects around toilet humor. My poor wife must have had a miserable night of sleep last night: fortunately it wasn’t a work night. I had eaten a couple of bowls of chili the night before and went to the track yesterday for beer and polish sausage. Also, we went to Outback for dinner where I had baby-back ribs and two martinis – extra dirty, extra dry, extra olives. I must have an iron stomach, but apparently the gas was unbearable, even though I slept fine. Every once in a while, I’ll find my wife on the couch in the morning, and I know I’m in trouble. In this case, there was some initial snoring, but the gas was the biggest reason she evacuated the bedroom.

I have a category of poetry called “In Questionable Bad Taste.” I would definitely put this apology to my wife in that section of my catalog of poems, although I doubt that she will be impressed or proud of my work:

Noises in the Night

When your bedroom,
Becomes a barnyard.
Getting any rest,
Has to be hard.

You moved to the couch,
While I kept on dreaming.
I’d hate to know what,
You might have been scheming?

When I go to sleep,
Noises must come out.
I might as well,
Just lay there and shout.

It keeps you awake,
While I’m out cold.
I know that it must,
Be getting quite old.

They’re often unpleasant,
And come out both ends.
Sexy and considerate,
Isn’t the message it sends.

It can’t be me,
I’m too damn sweet.
I’m sorry just in case,
And hope never to repeat

What comes out,
Once went in.
That guy in your bed,
Must be my evil twin.

I need to eat flowers,
And drink perfume.
Chili and beer,
Are the problem I fear.

Snores like boars,
And the gas I pass.
May soon get me kicked,
Out of bed on my ass.

Copyright 2018 johnstonwrites.com