You think a girl like me could ever love a guy like you.
Our marriage is a ruse, a steady walking backwards.
The things you've done to me,
you miserable bastard!
Adulterer, liar and drug addicted...
She screams in her native Ukrainian,
obscenities once reserved for Turks by Cossack ancestors.
The poor bastard did reform after a particularly disastrous Christmas.
That devilish past he's buried and wants of it no reminder,
but on Fridays, in otherwise peaceful sunsets,
she recounts him his sins like clockwork,
her special gift to the Sabbath.
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