A second marriage is a triumph of hope
over experience. — Samuel Johnson
He imagined one last woman,
a companion for the remainder of his life.
Alas, he had not been lucky,
with the woman who had once been his wife.
His last woman might be dark or fair,
with hair either straight or curly,
it did not really matter to him,
so long as she was not surly.
She might be tall, or stubby,
thin or chubby.
She might be clever, or dull,
faithful and gentle, or a trull.
Stony sober or cheerfully boozy,
loyal helpmate or flighty floozy.
The quandary made him woozy.
One restless night, while pondering his plight,
he heeded the words of an inner voice:
“You pay your money, and you take your choice.”
He considered the matter intently,
till it vexed him like a festering wen.
Women can be vexatious,
to seriously cogitating men.
He sighed, “I am like a condemned prisoner in a cell,
thinking of his last meal, on the way to hell.”
Nevertheless, he imagined a last woman,
his companion for the remainder of his life.
This time he might get lucky,
unlike with the woman who had once been his wife.
