Upon marriage she was happy,
But now she is sad and dour.
A husband who says words of love,
But whose meanings are bitterly sour.
Each time she moves in,
He'll let out a big, fat sigh.
To ask, "Honey, do you love me?"
Is to hear, "I got a ring, don't I?"
If she were to move in for a kiss,
She would meet a cold cheek.
A man once loving and vibrant,
Now desolate and bleak.
Can she even call it sex,
If it is forced against her will?
If she cries out he beats her,
So she supresses her urge to shrill.
It is easy to love and care,
When your feeling lonely and bereft.
It is even easy to love a monster,
When your life has nothing left.
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