I sank into the couch one night and felt like I’d been swallowed,
and that was just a year ago. You won’t believe what followed.
Now those of you with wives like mine, perhaps you’ll understand
that when it comes to household things, she has the upper hand.
Yes, I agreed upon the need for couches, don’t you see?
For after all, the one who sank into the couch was me,
but if you think it ended there, you’re just as big a dope
as I was. Daughter came to help, and now there was no hope—
that it would ever end. The thing that we would then replace:
the rug, for it no longer matched, was worn in any case.
And daughter, the designer, said, “I think new lamps are next.”
“What’s wrong with these? I like them.” Now I really was perplexed.
“But they don’t match the color of the rug,” the wife concurred.
“Well, how can they not match?” I said, “For surely that’s absurd.
They both are green!” I told them. “Are you blind for goodness’ sake?”
But instantly I knew that I had made a big mistake.
“Of course, they’re green. That’s obvious,” the daughter said to me.
“You must consider undertones; they’re different, don’t you see?”
“I see I’m being hood-winked by a pair of hooligans
who make up terms. I say to you, you’re killing me again!
“Go buy the lamps, for goodness’ sake, but then I’m calling quits.
Enough’s enough. The two of you are giving me the fits!”
But little did I know that they had only just begun
the family room makeover. They were really having fun.
For next they said the coffee table, had to be replaced.
A bluish ottoman, they said, would better fill the space.
Or so they claimed, while knowing that I might think it was bogus,
but knew my will was weakening. They hoped that I’d lose focus.
Then end tables and new artwork, how deftly they were sought.
Fatigued at last, I said “okay” to everything they bought.
And then dear daughter sidled up, she’d judged the time was right.
Just maybe I’d accept her next big plan without a fight.
She said, “Dad, your recliner matches nothing new, you know.
As much as you adore it, I’m afraid it has to go.”
“Don’t DARE touch my recliner, he’s a dear old friend to me!
So, hands off now, he’s mine. You can’t remove him, no sirree!”
I made my point, huffed off to bed. Next day when I awoke,
well, even I could see that he was out of place, poor bloke.
My daughter was correct, and so Goodwill hauled him away,
and in the distance, I could swear that “Taps” was being played.
Of course, now there’s a gap where my old friend had sat for years
that needed to be filled with wife and daughter’s choice of chairs.
They’d worn me down, “Just leave me out of it. I won’t rebel.
Just have your way, spare no expense. I know that you’ll choose well.”
At last, my role in this was plain; I’m just a rubber stamp
for all their choices, but you know, they treat me like a champ.
For I have come to realize—I’m not a stubborn fool—
that happy wife means happy life, and that’s a sacred rule.
