The Ballad of Madam Chopitoff

A woman fed up, fueled by strife,  
Chopped off her husband’s pride with a knife.  
As he lay sleeping, she took her leave,  
Tossed his “johnson” out, in wild reprieve.  
 
Bleeding profusely, he called for aid,  
A friend drove him to Hospital's shade.  
Meanwhile, cops took up the hunt,  
Questioned Madam Chop-It-Off, blunt.  
 
They found it tossed by 7-Eleven,  
Wrapped it on ice, quite the leaven  
In a hot-dog bag, and rushed it quick,  
A surgeon’s test, to knot the prick.  
 
Nine hours in surgery's heavy hand,  
Reattached it,  and made him stand.  
Newly whole, he’d later prance,  
In Hankey Pankey’s dark romance.  
 
Madam Chop-It-Off had her say,  
Claimed he’d hurt her that dark day,  
Years of pain she couldn’t hide,  
Her wounds, her rage, set aside.  
 
He went uncharged, but for her “insane,”  
They’d label her, despite her pain.  
A tale to haunt the news for years,  
A brutal mix of blood and tears  
 
So heed, beware the silent cries,  
A love betrayed, a bitter prize.  
For knives are sharp, and rage can kill,  
And vengeance has its carnal thrill.