Buttering the Mountain

He did not
hold her to
ridicule as
she created
stanzas on pages
for the first time.
But in the pub
on Saturday night
he told the I.ads
the missus was a poet.
When the girls heard this
they wondered how she
found the energy
with the checkout job.
On Sunday she weaved no butter into his potatoes.
Clearing the table
she pulled a ‘Move over Butter’ label
from its carton.
He woke up
alone Monday morning
with it strapped
to his prick.