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Two Poems from our Funny Poetry Collection
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| THE PURSE |
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| Author: |
Skyler Teagle
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| Poem: |
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A purse is a woman's sanctuary; where husbands fear to go. About the goodies contained therein, few sane men dare to know. She guards over her valued treasure until her last mortal breath. If any man should peek there, he's quite apt to meet his death.
A woman's most prized possessions can all find a niche in there. Things you'd swear would never fit are gobbled up somewhere. It's some kind of miracle the durned things don't split apart. Those little gals that tote them around surely can't be faint of heart.
Those things must weigh a ton, from all the booty they consume. No matter what she stuffs in it, seems there's still a little room. I'm not about to touch one. Here's a good reason why: I'm too young to die!
I happened by the kitchen as the wife cleaned hers, one day. 'Stuff' spread all over the table. I just stood there, amazed. The table groaned under the weight. 'Stuff was rolling to the floor.
She was changing to a bigger purse, so's there'd be room for more!
Well, the items piled on the table were a wonderment to me. Almost everything imaginable was there in front of me to see. From a phone bill two years old to our grandson's crusted binkie; to last year's Corn Flakes coupon and a moldy, half-eaten twinkie.
From mult-colored paper clips to all those feminine "unmentionables" that fellers needn't bother with and, we hope, our wives won't tell.
From toe nail clippers to pinkie polish; and a handy Kleenex pack; to Doctore Scholl's wart remover, in case they should come back.
There's every conceivable shade of lipstick ever known to woman; at least six kinds of lotion used to soften her face and hands. There's a rat's nest of hair curlers, nets, and fifteen different combs; and a dozen chips of color samples for when we paint our home.
There's a tattered, worn, old checkbook, useless 'cause we're broke. She would never think of chucking it, for she just can't give up hope. Pictures here and pictures there, all the grand-kids with glowing faces. All the letters from our relatives, she's been hoarding them for ages.
Now, near the bottom of her vault, there are pennies everywhere. Must be fifty pounds worth that she had stashed in there. Well, I worked up the nerve to ask her what she lugged them for: She very possessively let me know: "to pay sales tax at the store!"
Ok, I know when to butt out. She's getting weary of my jokes. No, with fifty pounds of pennies, she never will be broke. Now, if it will keep her happy, dragging all that weight around, I won't mess with her storehouse, 'Tis very wise, I've found. |
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