Tastes like chicken

Coasting up to my house,    
I killed the lights and the motor,
timing it just right into the driveway  
silently opening the side fence  
around to the back  
Beeped the car remote  
listened for the rustle    
 he rushed the back door,    
slipped out into my waiting frying pan  
slammed onto his head  
lurching forward    
dropped to the  
cold hard ground  
   
   
I swaggered back to the front  
 Hi Honey, I'm Home!  
An hour early.    
I would bury him later.  
The flower bed needed sprucing up.  
   
I went up and finished off my woman,  
 giving her a couple extra  
on top of what her face said she just had  
   
Good Nite, Honey  
   
good night dear
 
 
In the bright and early moring I awake with a start,
my  morning duty cut out for me, I throw on my dirty garden clothes and head out the back door, grabbing a shovel from the garage.
The body isn't there.  
 
I race back upstairs.  
 
My wife is sleeping soundly.
I go back to the back yard.  
The flower bed looks  the same, almost.
OCD that I am I notice the arrangement has changed,
and it sits a few inches higher.
 
Oh well.   I go on to work.
 
did my wife know what happened all along?  
I remember her 'workout' smell was strong
that morning.
 
I could not work much the whole day.
I was afraid to come home.
I decided to call her, and ask her out to a fancy restaurant.
 
It went to voicemail.
Voicemail.   There is something about my wife, is that she picks up my calls.   Always.
I running red lights race home.  
Into the driveway, I careen.
Walking to the house I hear the same de jah vu rumble
of somebody  running down the stair case.  
I race to the back yard only to see the same guy,
or so I think,  
making it out the back screen door, then running
to the back gate.
There is my wife, upstairs, in bed,  
 
I drop my pants.
I have trouble getting it up.
I say excuse me, and change back into my dirty  cloths,
and go out to the flower bed, to put the flowers back.
 
I  uncover a body. I check his head, sure enough, his skull is busted where I had hit him.
My wife is standing behind me.
She is raising the frying pan to strike me.
I roll away as it comes down on my  kneecap.
The back gate opens.  The guy comes back into my yard.
I get up on one working leg as my wife takes another swing,
I fall away to miss it.  
The guy is now jogging his way over to get me while I am down  
again.
My  wife is raising the pan for the kill.
When he arrives, lunging down,
hands outstretched to my neck,  
then his body plunks lifeless onto me.
The iron skillet is still ringing like a dull bell.
 
I lay there  with this man on top of me,
eventually my wife drops the pan,  and goes back into the house.
 
Limping up the stairs, I shower off,  
then give her a couple more of what was already on her face.
 
Later I fire up  the coals,  
slice some fresh tenderloin,  
and have a cookout.
everything tastes like chicken.