When he wants to retire, if a cowboy is your spouse
Remember that you’ll have him hangin’ round the house
He’s underfoot all day, and like a two-year-old he asks
About a million questions as I go about my tasks…

“Why do you punch the buns down? How come they take so long?
What is ‘virgin’ oil? I’m sure that must be wrong…
Why do you sort the clothes out? You sure that some will fade?
Why do you turn ‘em inside out? You sure you can’t wash suede?
How come you wash the windows with that special store-bought stuff?
I think my ma used vinegar, I’m sure that’s good enough!
Why scrub the floor on hands and knees, why not use a mop?
How come you need so many knives, won’t any of them chop?
Why not use some lard instead of buying Pam?
What on earth’s the real point of a pillow sham?”

Oh, I wouldn’t mind his questions, I’d welcome them, I vow
If instead of asking why, why, why —
He’d sometimes ask me HOW.

Retirement was excerpted from Range, Riders & Rhymes by Phyllis Rathwell.