Women like bouquets of roses,
Jewelry on their hands and toeses;
My true love does not.
She’s okay with a rose or two
But doesn’t make a big todo
Or care if they are red or blue;
Just puts them in a pot.
She doesn’t care for fancy rings
Or diamonds, gold, or silver things.
She says they’re for the queens and kings,
And folks with dough to burn.
She’d rather have just normal stuff
(And thinks, in fact, we have enough);
Who needs to buy this extra fluff
With money that we earn?
The things, she says, she’d rather see,
Is food enough for her and me,
And maybe for the children (three),
And a place to live.
Simple things to have in life,
Simple husband, simple wife,
Avoiding all consumer strife:
These things I gladly give.
I'm behind this all the way
(How could I not? It's less to pay!)
Buying jewelry any day's
Like setting cash on fire.
So here's my dirty laundry,
My spousal birthday quandary,
That leaves me deeply ponder-y:
What the Hell to buy her?