The Curse

When I was just a little tyke,
Religiously each day
I read a comic strip about
Men living in a cave.

The main character, Alley Oop,
For whom the strip was named,
Was a prehistoric cave man
Who rose to ancient fame.

The Grand Wiser was most renowned
For a big bird that sat
Eternally upon his head,
A most unusual hat.

His other pal, named Foozy, was
A young man in his prime
Who couldn’t talk to anyone
Unless he spoke in rhyme.

The transportation was unique.
Each time they wished to tour
The countryside they sat astride
A long necked dinosaur.

I am constrained to sympathize
With Foozy for his curse
That recently laid hold on me
And makes me speak in verse.

My couplets have an ill effect
On family harmony.
My wife admits that now and then
She doubts my sanity.

Last night at the appointed time
For me to go to bed,
I should have simply said, “Good Night,”
But this came out instead . . .

“Good night, my love, I hope you sleep
And dream of butterflies,
About bluebirds, pure mountain streams
And rainbows in the sky.”

She made no effort to respond
But stared at me instead.
All night she slept way over there
On her side of the bed.

After a long and restless night
She got up quietly,
Backed out the door as though she feared
To turn her back on me.

I followed her into the hall,
Not yet fully awake.
In morning salutations I
Repeated my mistake.

“Good morning, dear,” I said, “I hope
You rested well last night.
I pray your day will be carefree
And all your burdens light.”

At breakfast she remained aloof
With not a word to say,
And every time I looked at her,
She looked the other way.

I said, “I’ll be inside all day
Since I’ve no place to go.”
Ere I could say another word,
She frowned and cried, “Oh no!”

She ran into the living room
And grabbed the telephone.
I watched her trembling finger dial
Three numbers, nine one one.