For many years we’ve lived as man and wife,
As happy now as on the day we wed.
“We’re more like sweethearts,” I have always said.
No cloud has dimmed the sunshine of our life,
Though now and then I’ll seize a rolling pin
And playfully I’ll clout her on the dome
Just to preserve domestic discipline
And demonstrate who’s master in our home.
At times she’ll hurl with well-directed aim
A platter or an iron at my bean.
These slight attentions keep romances green
And keep alive the hymeneal flame.
On Sunday, when the evening lamp is lit
And peace and calm contentment fill our house,
With pipe and well-loved book at ease I sit,
And at my side, in earnest thought, my spouse,
Then fade the cares and troubles of the day;
With Conrad and Lord Jim I sail the sea,
When suddenly I hear my wife’s voice say,
“What word for ‘female child’ begins with G?”
“The word is ‘Girl’,” I growl. Again I try
To catch the shattered magic of my tale.
I find my place. Again with Jim I sail
Upon the tropic sea. My wife says “My,
What pronoun in three letters starts with Y?”
Calmly I rise and search about the place
To find a weapon of sufficient weight.
Aha! Upon our wall an ancient mace,
Studded with knobs of steel. The very thing.
I seize it, and with easy, graceful swing
Wallop my darling wife upon the pate,
The sconce or bean, or dome, or what you will.
Silent she tumbles headlong in the grate.
I take my book and leisurely resume
My tale, and peace and quiet fill the room.
From F.P.A.’s Conning Tower
in The New York World