Twenty years of wedded bliss
deserves a special treat.
I'll fix his fav'rite meal tonight—
the one he loves to eat.

So in the kitchen Jan did toil,
'til sweat dripped from her face.
With love, assembling something grand,
each item in its place.

Anticipation filled her heart
as both of them sat down.
Her joy became confusion when
she noticed Patrick's frown.

"Without a doubt, upon this plate,
there's meat and veg' enough;
however, dear, I think you'll find
the steak is rather tough."

"As for the peas, they're nice and green,
now please dear, don't you cry—
there's nothing really major wrong,
they're just a little dry."

To hold back tears when spirit's crushed
is not an easy task;
Jeanette did tolerably well
to keep her heartbreak masked.

In silence, plates were gathered up
and taken from the room;
but in the kitchen Jan began
to fester and to fume.

When frying pan meets fragile skull,
there's not a lot of fuss,
just a fearful, knockout blow—
a recumbentibus!

As Patrick lay upon the bed,
his Jan was by his side.
He saw between the tubes and cast,
her smile was broad and wide.

"Feeling any better, dear?"
Jeanette's concern was clear;
but Patrick was a little dull—
a true numbskull, I fear.

"Food in this hospital is mush,
I've had enough of it.
It looks a lot like mouldy slime,
and really tastes like... mud."

"A home-cooked roast would do the trick,
and that's just what I need—
how about you bring me in
a good and proper feed?"

The moral to this little tale...
know when you should not speak.
For all who may be mourning Pat,
the funeral's next week.