For Want of a Hair Shirt

I told my wife I would be happy in a hair shirt.
She denied me. I also told her there was victory
in my icy dominance. She further denied me.
I mastered the art of the plastic do-over,
and she burst into a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

An acquaintance reminded me that he once owned a hair shirt, though he hastened to add that he no longer finds self-mortification an effective means of connecting with his higher power. He still finds cilices intriguing and owns quite a few, but they are merely decorative.

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