Don't Ask Me

Don’t Ask Me

I’m happy to give of my opinion,

If you want to hear what I think.

That is, when I’m down at the pub,

With my mates, just having a drink.

But at home, it’s a different story,

And one that causes me strife.

For there we have the fount of all knowledge,

And it’s not me, it’s the wife!

For she’s got strong views on every topic:

There’s no subject on which she hasn’t a take.

She’s an expert in every field you can name,

No interest in which she hasn’t a stake.

Tho’ she is my love and my darling,

My dearest, my treasure, my dear,

She’s got a fearsome way of talking,

That inspires a goodly portion of fear.

Across the marmalade at breakfast,

I’m on The Guardian, but she reads the Express.

She chokes on her toast and she fulminates,

And the crumbs she exhales make quite a mess.

You see she’s got a very firm stance,

On any social policy or decision,

Religion, the Royal Family,

And even on female circumcision.

I can’t get a word in edgeways sometimes,

As she dispels any kind of confusion.

She’s got the answer to everything,

And for every problem, a solution.

Professors, doctors and researchers,

Who’ve spent a life-time studying ideas,

Stand for nothing in her onslaught,

As she contradicts them with jeers.

Economics, world hunger and AIDS,

She can hold forth without pause,

So it’s pointless you asking me,

You’d best check with ‘er indoors.

Immigration, emigration, benefit cheats,

Foreign policy, football or cricket,

It’s best to listen, not interrupt,

Or she’ll tell you where you can stick it.

Decoration? Fashion? Or trends?

She’s the one who knows where it’s at.

Northern Ireland? Palestine? Or Syria?

She says what she thinks, and that’s that!

Homophobia, xenophobia,

And prejudice of every kind,

Could be banished within a few minutes,

If she gave you a piece of her mind!

  

She knows what’s wrong with everything,

She’s clear how things ought to be done,

There’s little she can’t address herself to,

And for her, there’s nothing new under the sun.

If only people would listen to her,

The world could be a much better place,

There’d be no fighting, or wars or disease,

And evil would be gone without trace.

Politics is her specialist subject,

And don’t get her started about the tax-man.

Her polemical style is worse than Jon Humphrys,

And on a bad day gets worse than Paxman.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking,

That she’s incredibly well meant,

That she should perhaps become an MP,

And see how she gets on in Parliament.

But it’s far too late for that I’m afraid,

There’s already been a roll of the dice:

For Conservative Central Office,

Already ring daily just to ask her advice.

No, there’s no situation she can’t handle,

There’s not a dogma she won’t fight:

If you’re looking for a policy statement,

She’s the one who’ll provide a sound-bite.

She’s never ready to settle for nonsense,

And she can’t abide the status quo.

She doesn’t know the meaning of silence,

But, for God’s sake, don’t tell her I said so!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015