Electric Spaghetti

What does one do with a man who fits the floor with wearied socks and jeans.
What does one do with a man whose mouth will never tune to mushrooms or fennel.
What does one do with a man who constantly points out, in a maddeningly accurate fashion, that I procrastinate.
What does one do with a man who nags and nags and nags me to write The Book.
What does one do with a man who tsks tsks at my cussing?
What does one do with a man who forgets to put the milk away?

What does one do?

except to

Thank God

for everyday

with a man

who fits the floor with wearied socks and jeans,
whose mouth will never tune to mushrooms or fennel,
who constantly points out, in a maddeningly accurate fashion, that I procrastinate,
who nags and nags and nags me to write The Book,
who tsks tsks at my cussing,
who forgets to put the milk away.