In my spare time I read, watch Doctor Who, build haunted dollhouses, and write bad poetry. Like, THE WORST poetry. In fact, the poem I wrote today was so bad I had to run after Victor to get him to listen to the end of it and then after that he went directly to the doctor. And that’s a record, so I thought I would share:

Nothing Rhymes With “Episiotomy”

Janie and I went to Marcia’s shower

expecting some pre-baby fun.

We arrived at her house at the agreed upon hour

and immediately wanted to run.

Marcia’s round belly was surrounded by girls who

regaled her with tales of their labor,

while Marcia grew paler and tried to grab onto

her wits, a life raft, or a saber.

“I pooped on the table,” said plump, old Aunt Pat,

(She made it sound like a boast).

Said Tiffany-Sue: “Oh, everyone does that.”

Marcia turned white as a ghost.

“For shame, now girls,” said reserved cousin Flo,

“Who cares ’bout your old lady bits?

Babies do much more damage as they grow.

Good heavens, just look at my tits!”

Within a half-hour I needed a shower

and Marcia and Janie looked faint.

“Why, that’s nothing” said gran, who fluttered her fan,

“You should see what they did to my taint!”

Of blood and of bile they prattled on blindly,

(By now Marcia was starting to heave.)

They showed c-section scars (a little unkindly).

It was clear that we needed to leave.

The talk of the girls

caused great twisting of pearls

and left us all thinking of options.

Janie’s decided to stay on the pill,

And I’m looking into adoption.