Fuck no she didn’t leave me over money.
She left me cause I have no ass. It’s true—
a belt holds on my hips about as good
as an oiled-up pole dancer. That’s why
I invented these strapless suspenders.
Can’t see em, can you? Good, that’s the idea.
Almost went bankrupt makin the prototype.
My wife kept sayin What suspenders?—
you aint wearin nothin. But riddle me this:
Are my jeans pooled at my feet? I swear,
bonafide genius dumbfounds belief
with simplicity. Same goes for the truth.
Like if I told you my wife left me cause
I got less milkshake than a garter snake,
you’d say there’s gotta be more to that story.
Like what? I go to work one day and come
back home to no trace of her. No photos.
No toothbrush. Not even the carrots
she raised in the garden beds, just holes
in the earth like buckshot where she plucked em
free. And of course, she got custody.
And the house eventually, which, I’ll admit,
I mortgaged to pay for the patent.
You think that was the dagger? Here I am
workin to cure auto-pantsin for the assless
and she’s fussin over a little loan? Yes or no:
could I win her back if I doubled down
and got those silicone implants? Fine,
shake your head, but I don’t think you respect
how bad it is when God forgets to blow up
your balloons. Hell, I’d show you, but these
suspenders are a bitch to get back into.