I've been told I look like the Miller,
short, round, somewhat balding.
I take it as a compliment, because I
am, short round, somewhat balding.

So I read his tale. Seemed simple enough.
A girl, a guy, the girl's old husband,
the priest down the lane that likes to kiss
peoples "ers".

I like it enough to read it to my wife,
who, like every other time I read something to her,
gave a whimper. No laughter, no smile.
A whimper of disgust? A whimper that really said,
'Honey, I love you but stop reading to me'?

or was it a whimper of pain?

If only life were as simple as
the Miller's tale.