Many of our homemakers happen to be depressed these days,
They wish their spouses to refrain from inviting yours truly to their homes;
Lest he behave like a male Laura Pyke, exhorting them to lay off the vitamins,
And while away his own time merely devouring some literary tomes.
A lazy bum, he continues to gobble up cookies from the kitchen jar,
Making the Aubrey Upjohn in the family take a jaundiced view of things;
He opens the hatch to guzzle down jugfuls of tea and milk,
Much like Bertie, he gets up very late, anticipating what the morning tray brings.
His cooking abilities are limited to boiling milk and eggs,
An apprenticeship under Anatole is what he desperately needs;
Doing the dishes and tidying up the place is not his idea of fun,
Oh, how they wish these could count as some of his chivalrous deeds.
Very badly does he need a crash course in baby-sitting,
The prospect of changing nappies leaves him cold;
Bingo Little could surely teach him a trick or two,
While touching neighbours for a tenner he is rather bold.
His face glows when he is in the vicinity of an array of tissue restoratives,
Or that of a well-endowed member of the tribe of the delicately nurtured;
But his Gussie Fink Nottle style fumbling and tongue-tied-ness,
Leaves the tender hopes of the party of the other part somewhat fractured.
His is a visage that shows him to be a man of baser instincts,
Eyeing female profiles as if following a hill train on a curvaceous track;
Divas from Hollywood to Bollywood he is frequently in love with,
Any record of the romances of Bingo Little he could beat by a crack.
Much like a soggy Donaldson dog biscuit, he looks bored and listless,
Yet, unexplained bursts of mirth often escape from his bedroom;
Curling up with a narrative by Plum is apparently all that his heart desires,
Often do they spot him sneaking with one to the solitude of the restroom.
Plopping down on the sofa with a book in hand he loves,
Falling off with uncontrolled laughter leaves his insurers in anguish;
His permanent companions happen to be his books and his laptop,
Unleashing some inane stuff which smells more like a stale dish.
Never has he been known to have won any prize in Scripture Knowledge,
But he remains enthusiastic about sharing his thoughts with the younger lot;
Travelling to far off places, sharing nuggets of managerial wisdom,
Many amongst his clueless audience are known to ask for a sleeping cot.
Having this vagabond infest their home these homemakers abhor,
Shuddering at the prospect as soon as they recall and brood;
Fervently do they pray that he stays put at the Brinkley Manor of his life,
Wishing that their Guardian Angels always remain in a benevolent mood.
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(Related Post: https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2016/04/01/about-me)
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Wodehouse. Admittedly, his narratives are replete with somewhat jaundiced references to the fairer sex. We could readily jump to the conclusion that his works have been written only for an exclusive boys’ club.
