Jack and Jill went out for supper at their favorite diner.
Jill was wearing her best dress and couldn’t look much finer.
Jack drank two large Bloody Marys along with his meal.
But Jill abstained; she didn’t like the way booze made her feel.
With her food gone, Jill slid across the booth into his lap.
Jack leaned in for expected kiss, instead received a slap.
"You didn’t eat your peas," she said. It sounded like a scold.
So Jack obliged and cleaned his plate, although the peas were cold.
When they got home, Jill crossed the room, arms open for a hug.
But Jack burped loudly, said, "Oh shit," and threw up on the rug.
And there it sat, a Christmas-looking pile of green and red.
What both hoped was a pleasant night went right downhill instead.
"I’ll fetch a pail of water so that you can clean that mess.
I’d help you out but I don’t want to get it on my dress."
As Jack bent sadly to his task, he heard her hallway yell:
"I’ll be back in the morning. I can’t sleep here with that smell."
Jack thought, "My life’s a living hell," and something in him died.
Next morn, Jill found him dead in bed, apparent suicide.