HELL UNDER A SKIRT Poem by Luuk Gruwez

Barely she still calls me mister,
the shrew that's training me.
Disguised as the dog of the house,
I must sniff at her existence
and bark when something is suspicious.

For she has the corrupted mind
of one who has been lonely a long time.
I follow the rolled hem of her skirt,
must come along to butcher and to baker,
in the evening do my tricks to get a bone,
in the morning on her counterpane I wake.

The things of which I am ashamed
are not the things that I have done,
but that I only craved:
I do want to bite into her calves,
But my teeth are no longer sharp.