Even if I had a Ph.D. in psychology,
Even if I were a diplomatic whiz,
Even if I were Queen of the charmers and more irresistibly sexual
Than whoever the current reigning sexpot is,
And even if I had a fortune to squander on payoffs,
And even if I had Mafia connections,
It still would be impossible to persuade my husband, when lost,
To stop - please stop - the car, and ask for directions.
Even if I were collapsing from thirst and from hunger,
Even if I were reduced to darkest gloom,
Even if I observed, between sobs, that we should have arrived three hours ago,
And the inn was going to give away our room,
And even if I revived all my marital grievances:
Old hurts and humiliations and rejections,
It still would be impossible to persuade my husband, when lost,
To stop - just stop - the car, and ask for directions.
Even if I were to throw a full-scale temper tantrum,
Even if I were to call him an uncouth name,
Even if I were to not-so-gently suggest that should we wind up getting divorced,
He would have nobody else but himself to blame,
And even if I, in a tone I concede is called screaming,
Enumerated his countless imperfections,
It still would be impossible to persuade my husband, when lost,
To stop the goddamn car, and ask for directions.
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