The Wife of Lance Allot

450px-Shalott3 I am still thrilled that this crazy lampooning of The Lady of Shallot placed 2nd in the wonderful Wergle Flomp Humorous Poetry Comp 2010 on Winning Writers https://winningwriters.com/

Wergle Flomp Humour Poetry Contest 2010 (view all the winners)
Second Prize

The Wife of Lance Allot
Wendy Waters

On worsted lines the washing dries
Damp trails of whites, rank bales of lyes
The dross of kids, the mess of dyes
My life is crap, the lady cries
The wife of Lance Allot.
And up and down her patience goes
One minute fine, the next she blows
And through it all she cleans their clothes,
The lady scrubs a lot.

She scours his briefs and frequent quivers
When they first met he gave her shivers
Rode her till they both delivered
Cries that rent the neighbours’ livers
And had her screaming Lance a lot
Four grey socks and skid-marked boxers
Won’t respond to soap or OXOs
Silently the lady voxes
F**k you Lance Allot.

A skinny margin has her thrown
I’ll stay until the kids are grown
And when I leave I’ll call my own
The cougar cubs, the oats I’ve sown
I’ll leave you Lance Allot.
Dot next door will lend a hand
If ya ‘pendix burst or ya jugs disband
But mostly she’ll just gawk and stand
And leer at Lance a lot.

Doubray their son is fair and pearly
His sisters call him poof and girly
Lance who once was dark and curly
Swears the boy was sired by Charlie
The other half of Dot.
Heavy, she hauls the washing in
And with a curse she quiets the din
Youse kids will be the death of him
And me she cries a lot.

Lance is at the pub again
The girls are watching soap on ten
Doubray pens a poem to Ben
His new best friend the son of Glen
The man who mows their lawns.
She thought she saw what might have been
A look from Glen, a flash of keen
But then again ’twas through the screen
And Lance was on the porch.

And so she washes night and day
The whites are first, the colours lay
In piles beside Doubray’s display
Of flowers he picked to cheer her eh
Neglected Ms Allot.
Another dreary year will close
And she remains a slave to clothes
Tis nothing like the life she ‘sposed
Would come with Lance Allot.

And glancing in her mirror here
Wrinkles of the world appear
A craggy frown, devoid of cheer
She gazes at the highway near
Winding far from Lance Allot.
There a truckie trails a Ford
And here a Camry veers t’ward
A river dark that snails the yard
The lawns of spunky Glen.

Sometimes a bunch of girls go by
Their manners low their dresses high
And as she watches them she sighs
I was once like that she cries
Only I was better.
Me hair was bleached and backcombed hived
Me tits were fit to burst the sides
Of size ten Tees in smoky dives
Snogging Lance Allot.

To memories of these past delights
The lady turns her jaded sights
Replacing Glen in all their nights
And rues it p’robly isn’t right
Betraying Lance Allot.
For all his faults the man is here
And when her load is fit to rear
He lends a foot and rights the weir
The load is back on top.

The lawn looks like a craven fen
She dials the phone and speaks to Gwen
The mulish wife of hunky Glen
Who hollers it’s that broad again
Missus Lance Allot.
Glen takes the call and speaks real low
And asks if Lance would care to go
Out for the day ’tis easier so
I need to speak ta you.

On Sunday morn she rises early
Wakes the kids and washes curly
Graying locks that stay unruly
A hundred strokes and still they’re only
Shades of what she was.
Lance goes out to watch the soccer
Wishing Doubray was more ocker
Instead of being a little poofter
He glares at Charlie Pratt.

At eight o’clock Glen parks his Ute
He cuts the engine stabs his boot
Into the gravel pitted roots
Of bindi eyes and couch reshoots
And looks for Ms Allot.
The lady has just sent the kids
Off to their Gran’s with fifty quids
Of hard-won graft to tell this fib
And say they stayed at home.

Glen’s not a man who mucks around
He takes her on the porch front sound
Releasing urges long-since ground
By daily drear and washing mounds
And snoring Lance Allot.
It’s been getting bad he cries
The urge to get between ya thighs
By jeez yer easy on the eyes
Come away wiv me.

But who is this? And what is here?
Lance is home with crates of beer
And gob smacked by the unclad rear
Of gardener Glen and too-late tears
Of faithless Grace Allot.
Ya could at least have gone inside
Instead of mangling all me pride
By rooting where the neighbours spied
I’ll never live this down he cried
Ya faithless smarmy cow.

The years have passed the kids have grown
And on the porch Grace stands alone
Surveys the lawn that once was mown
The empty line where clothes once groaned
The shirts of Lance Allot.
Who died of flu in a year of drought
The day before Doubray came out
And trembling, cried with his last spout
I love ya Grace Allot.

450px-John_William_Waterhouse_-_The_Lady_of_Shalott_-_Google_Art_Project_(derivative_work_-_AutoContrast_edit_in_LCH_space)

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