Mr And Mrs Punch Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Mr Punch is holding a ticking bomb
With a short fuse. Mrs Punch is baking.
Under the flour, her knuckles are pure white

On Monday, Mrs Punch was late in ironing his shirt
He scalded her hand with coffee
But gave her Pagan perfume to ease the sting

On Tuesday, she pulled a face
When Mr Punch set muddy boots on the carpet
Two black eyes soon re-arranged her expression
He gave her sunglasses and the promise of happy days

On Wednesday she shook so much she dropped his beer
As her head bounced off the sideboard
He told her she made him do it
He forgave her for being clumsy, stupid, ugly,
Who else would put up with a no-account like her?

On Thursday, she spoke to a neighbour over the wall
Wives who flirt, he told her, were worse than whores
They needed to learn a lesson.
He was a good teacher, she lost three teeth that day

On Friday and Saturday, Mrs Punch was in Casualty.
She's very accident prone, her husband told the nurse
But we're a devoted couple. There's just no parting us.

On Sunday, she died of a blood clot.
Mr Punch was lost, cried crocodile tears.
What a loving husband, folk said, and so devoted.
What was Mr Punch to do without his bag?