His wife did have her share though, long ago.
Burning eyes lurking in the shade
Of her pointy hat, clothed black, she’d
Wake up witching hours with a shriek
To ride a thin stick of my body.
Him, not. Not once has he been
Described, mesoded, kenned or paraphrased;
My very own master of absence.
However unkind are my lines about her,
She at least marked her presence.
The old fart failed to earn even this much.