I live in merry old England and I drink a whole lot of tea.
I drink so much that each day I pass five gallons of pee.
My wife poured a boiling cup of tea over my head.
Then she crammed the cup where the sun doesn’t shine and my face turned red.
She’s on the warpath, did I do something that pissed her?
I wonder if she’s found out that I’m sleeping with her sister.
She’s gathering her things and she’s getting packed.
She’s leaving and I don’t think that she’s coming back.
She can leave if she wants but one thing really does worry me.
She did all of the cooking and I don’t know how to make tea.
This is a fictional poem.