By Jack Tilley
I took Bev as my lawfully wedded wife. Which was a mistake. She was in fact my Muse and not really there unless my fuse was lit fit to break my laptop.
I sat down by a babbling brook. Which was a big mistake. On the opposite bank Bev shimmied up, worked open a glittering eye, and sat dove-like on the rill ’til it was still. Uncorking a hideous pregnant silence, she stuffed me so full of mutter it came out my nostrils.
I divorced Bev. The worst mistake ever. Bev is not Satan, and I wish she wasn’t behind me.
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