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Tales Of A Wife: Owlets

The hooting call from the owls at war
Penetrates through the concrete wall.
Idiotic, useless and hopeless windbag
At each other, forenames they throw back.
“His horns are red” she cries:
“This can’t be a wife for life” he yells.

These owlets are job providers
The neighbours they employ
All because of her besetting-sins.
Or maybe
His horns are truly red:
This can’t be the married they planed!

He vowed never to fill his glass
But it seems like he’s never ready
It’s the only thing that gets him happy
No reflection, he could see his eye
Tipsy isn’t a word, he touches the sky.
And ask; how can a man please a wife?

As their employed neighbours
He sends us on apologises
An owl’s hoot gone through no ear
We dash our precious time to futile.
Brain intoxicated, he bends his elbows
I’m running away from Satan he feels.

Tapping bottles and wheels.
Driving off to anywhere, but not here
Sad they sleep with the devil
On same spot called “marriage”
Break fails: struggling to live or die
Away from troubles or face the dull-shine.

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