Hell hath no fury like a woman with PMS.
It's that time of the month and I'm in distress.
I'm hiding in the bedroom and it's a good thing that the door is latched.
My wife poured a gallon of gasoline over my head and lit a match.
It's times like these that make me regret that I even know her.
When I asked what's for dinner, she came at me with a flamethrower.
My head and torso are covered with burns that are third degree.
She's trying to chop down the door, somebody please help me!
I need somebody's help and I'm prepared to beg.
I just jumped out of the window and broke my legs.
When it comes to my wife's PMS, I never win.
I don't mind my injuries just as long as I never see her again.
(This is a fictional poem.)