He goes to work to earn a crust, he's covered head to toe in dust

He works so hard he truly thinks, he's earned that cold and amber drink

So to the pub from work he goes, still dressed in dirty working clothes

He sinks a few and tells his mates, that he's the boss and wives can wait

He glanced the clock and it was late, he knew that dinner was on the plate

But, Fred his mate said,

"Just one more"

But one soon changed to three then four

His mind was dazed he couldn't think, he knew he'd had too much to drink

He staggered home to greet the wife, with visions of her sharpened knife

Soon he reached the garden gate, he knew again, that he was late

He always used the same old stunt, to slam the door and give a grunt

The work bag down and on the couch, where soon, he doze with body slouched

His mouth a gape a drunken pose, looking almost comatose

Soon in she came his loving spouse, she looked upon this man or mouse

In her hand a meal, a folk and knife, one boiling, fed up angered wife

She place the plate beside the chair, her hand swung up into mid air

And with one plunge she drove it in

A burning chop, a repaid sin

Learn more about this author, Peta S. Cameron.
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