Doomsday morning’s arrived for schlock! As the day begins,
fed up to here she can’t take any more,
leaving her husband asleep and a-snore
she goes downstairs softly bitching, clucking, “That man’s my grief!
Years I’ve been yearning fanatic’ly
to oust him and his debris!”

She (“Seeing those gnomes gives me hives!”)
is heaving (“Look like spoils from dumpster dives!!”)
gnomes. (“Tasteless junk, waste of our money to buy.”)
She’s heaving gnomes that in front of her home
draw so many jeers. (Bye-bye.)

Hubby stirs as his wife, he senses, is tossing ’round.
Checking on whether she’s lying there,
standing he groans “Seems she’s gone, but where?”
He wakes now and hies to discover, maddened, betrayed he’s been.
Crying “This treatment ... what for?” is he,
“How could she do this to me?”

He (“I’ve had those gnomes all my life.”)
is leaving (“I love them more than my wife.” )
home. (“Those ‘ugly’ garden gnomes, Honey, were mine!”)
He’s leaving home ’cause she’s thrown out his gnomes
without any tears. (Bye-bye.)

Cried out, mourning his pined-for schlock he’s gone far away.
Maybe his deep disappointment will fade.
She thinks he’d first eat a hand grenade.

She (“I should’ve known all along ...”)
is glad he (“that, for me, he was all wrong.)
’s gone. (“What’d his garden gnome groomsmen imply?”)
She’s been dry-eyed ever they bye-bye’d
’midst her many cheers. (Bye-bye.)

She heaved his gnomes, bye-bye.