A WIFE'S REVENGE
- Feb 13
- 1 min read
By Glyn Matthews
If you die before me, as hopefully, you will,
(in fact I’ll make damned sure of it after what you did),
I’ll extract your roving eyes and display them in the window
as guidance for the curious. You’ll see.
Well, actually you won’t, so, just so’s you know…
I’ll sell tickets at the local T.I.C. and advertise on Facebook
and auction your bits and pieces, (especially your bits)
which I’ll arrange on the settee where you ‘entertained’
while I was away, looking after Mum.
I’ll preserve your testicles in oil
in Kilner jars and get self-adhesive labels and
write in my best handwriting: ‘left’ and ‘right’.
(Oh, and don’t get cocky cos
they do really small ones on Amazon.)
I’ll hire defrocked priests to
mumble obscenities over your open coffin,
evoking obliteration rather than absolution.
Then I’ll tip your carcase in the garden
and let pigs rip the flesh from your face
suck out your brains through your
eye-sockets and gobble your intestines
then shit you out again in the veggie plot
among the baby radishes,
(I expect they’ll be really good this year).
I’ll set up a camera
and capture your shrivelling eyeballs
in freeze-frame photographs of decay
and send the best one for consideration
to the Countryfile calendar competition.
(depending on the exact theme that year.)
If you thought I would forgive you,
don’t make me laugh,
think again and I’ll recite these lines
as I call the crows to come and bicker
over your fragmented finger bones.