The Hooker Party (that wasn’t)

This poem is in honor of a brief conversation that a friend and I had about why there weren’t any hookers at the hooker party. Now I know why.

There was a memo on my desk today:
“The hooker party starts at nine tonight.”
I call my wife and friends, they hear me say,
“My stomach’s feeling rather green, I might
Have to stop at Doctor Ted’s clinic.”
Friends and my companions understand;
Wife, suspicious, rather a cynic,
But too tired to vocalize demand.

To the hooker party here I go!
Familiar-looking car? No, many guests.
On front door knock and see how many show,
But, “Where’re all the hookers?” I protest.

The Doctor saw me shortly, I was glad;
I never thought a pan could hurt that bad!

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