Spritz, spritz, spritz

I’ve grown accustomed to her mace
every time that she sprays it in.
I’ve grown accustomed to the spume;
I look like I have rheum.
No smiles, just frowns
when she’s in town.
I’m going to get a spraying now.
I’m breathing out and don’t breathe in
or it will stream into my trachea—a cough fit I will get.
And then I will have to assuage it with gin. . .
to wet
my whistle, yet I cannot look,
but I can use my voice. . .
my eyes are full of mace.

I can see her now—with cleansing tears my eyes fill,
but I must admit: they’re feeling pretty sore.
I can see her now, getting ready for the drill:
she’s re-armed, raising her arm to spray some more.
Right now I’m feeling like an otter
when I start at the top of my head,
getting drenched with all the water
that engulfs me till chemicals have fled
from my eyes and I can again see light of day.
Before that, they were saltier than cured pork,
type of meat from which I’m inclined to stay away
and instead pierce silken tofu with my fork.

Dour Eliza, she is so spiteful;
humiliating me is delightful
to her, though not to me; but I have given up the fight.
She would not bring on the tears if she’d just nag
instead of momentarily making me lose sight.
But now I just take it and no longer squall.
And she knows now that I haven’t got the nerve—
when she’s in mace mood, I close my eyes and snout.

Yes, I’m a most forgiving man
Seems I’ve forever stood; never would
make opposition and never hold a grudge—
a most forgiving man.
Some say “masochist”—they’re off track.
I ain’t exactly crawling on my knees
up to her then to intone:
“Beat me like a dog with bone!”
Or, “I am begging you to mace me, please!!”

I am in an entropic way,
so I don’t run away.
I block my nose,
’cause thar she blows.
I’m going to get a spraying now. . .
just breathing out, no breathing in.

Not really hateful, this woman—
it’s just that she likes to jet
mace into my orbits. . .
all kinds does it take.

Regret
have I? No, to make such a case
would not really be fair.
I just shrug, take the mace.