Frankly my dear

Standing in the supermarket queue

Buying bananas and bed socks

Out of the corner of my eye

I spot the headlines

“————- “‘s secret hidden husband

{Now I’ll leave her name

Out

She has enough fame

Already

I cannot bring myself to like her

Or her show I do not watch

I am happily biased against “reality”}

 

Whilst walking home

Bag slung across my shoulders

I found myself pondering

Where would you hide a full-grown husband?

{Assuming he is full-grown and not some strange homunculus}

Was he discovered in a shallow grave?

In her backyard

Perhaps he’d been six feet under

A victim of

The Show

{Contestants having dug the hole as part of the competition}

 

Or maybe

She’d hidden him

Underneath the stairs

In a Harry Potteresque cupboard

And he’d waited for

Professor Dumbledore

And Hagrid

To come rescue him

To no avail

 

Perhaps

He was hidden

In a  room

In the attic

Where she let him out

For dinner

And sex

Once a fortnight

For recreation

And a change of scene

 

As I reach home

And my pot of tea is brewing

I settle in my chair

And realise

That frankly my dear

I don’t give a damn

Where you’ve put him!!

 

Copyright May 2013

 

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