A Changed Man
For months, I said (I lied) I didn't mind
the rolling home at 2am or 3,
the messing in the wardrobe. I was kind,
until the ghastly night he vommed on me.
"I didn't mean to!" Laughing, though, the git.
"Sod off!" I threw him out and locked the door.
It's time he changed, I muttered, or that's it!
He made his bed the grimy greenhouse floor.
Come morning, he was changed. He couldn't stand.
His skin was orange, slimy to the touch.
Was that a – yikes! – a suprapedal gland?
He lay there eating lettuce, far too much.
These days, he doesn't party. He's been clean,
albeit mucousy, since Hallowe'en.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Felicity Teague would be pleased to hear them.