How shall I kill you;
let me count the ways:
I could strangle you or gas you
or otherwise dispatch you with a gun,
which might be fun;
or drown you in the bath–
I could really have a laugh
as you bubbled protestations
with your final exhalations
while I held you underneath the soapy scum.
I could throw you down the stairs…
and enjoying your despair,
I’d watch you
sailing through the air, without a qualm.
These thoughts are balm to my resentment
at your arrogant retrenchment
of my little human pleasures
while collecting all my treasures
and storing them inside our little house.
If only you’d a voice more like a mouse,
not that foghorn of complaint
that sounds without restraint,
when I just want to live a quiet life.
Your dietary requirements are for strife,
a wife like you I’d rather do without.
Possibly I’ll stab you, detonate
or rotovate you in the soil.
Maybe I’ll just boil you in oil.
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