TO MY WIFE


With irrepressible eclat
She on the couch reclined,
Now brilliantly asleep, a
Portrait of the active mind.

The lamp of learning she pursued
While dozing hard between her naps;
And intermittently she'd brood
On nasty, academic traps.

Now she groaned and we could guess
That clanging nightmares now arose
Embrangling sleep; and made a mess
Of delitescent, sweet repose.

With indefatigable zeal
She on the couch hath lain,
Rising now to scream and squeal.
She didn't have a brain.

Papers, books and articles
Lay in periculant profusion
As divaricated particles
Of miasmic confusion

Inundated floor and table,
Violated, too, her couch,
And formed a strange, Augean stable
While I, her Hercules, would crouch

A victim of minacious eye
And torn by tongue from limb to limb.
In terror and in anguish I
Fear she'll surely do me in.

Hitlerian dreams of the Reich today,
Tomorrow all the world, you see,
Haunted her dreams of her M.A.
And her coming Ph.D.

But all is well that ends so well,
"Peace to this house," said (St.) Luke,
Thus I live and live to tell
That talk of school now makes her puke.