Cheaters never win: a poem of grave consequences.
The old man was dying–losing his life.
There at his bedside sat his loving wife.
They’d travelled a long road that has come to an end
And upon each other they had come to depend.
He’d sleep for awhile then wake with a smile.
She’d pat his brow; hold his hand for awhile.
His breathing was labored as he tried to speak.
He tried to sit up but he was too weak.
“There’s something that I have to tell you, my dear.
I cheated on you for more than a year.
Yes, I had a fling with Mrs. O’Roarke.”
“Hush,” she said, “Relax. Let the arsenic work.”
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