If Shakespeare Knew My Wife

Oh dear, sweet wife, 

  who bears my evening song,

From six-thirty to seven, 

  farts doth prolong.

Thou art a saint, 

  with patience pure and true,

To endure my symphony, 

  And my gaseous hue.

In every puff, 

  a melody’s released,

A tune that makes 

  the dog and cat deceased.

Yet, through it all, 

  thy love remains so strong,

My fragrant ballads 

  never turn thee wrong.

Oh, noble spouse, 

  thou art my heart’s delight,

Enduring through each 

  aromatic plight.

For too many years, 

  thy love’s a hearts catch,

Despite all the toots 

  thou dost not dare light the match

So here’s to thee, my love, 

  my flatulent muse,

‘Tis thy fortitude, that no man 

  could e’er refuse.

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