Upon May’s skirt, a tear fell with a splat,
the stain evidence of her upset. “Drat.”
This evening’s insult would not be forgat
by any who witnessed the petty spat.
Her thoughts were not those of a diplomat,
plotting revenge against the scrawny bat:
Instead of tissue, stuff her bodice with rat
And deem the retribution “tit for tat.”
Whilst she schemed of vengeance, beside her sat
the kingdom’s most handsome aristocrat.
He clasped her hand and gave it a pat.
“Dear girl, why did you run off like that?”
Her humiliation could fill a vat.
“Caroline Narrowbottom called me fat.”
He dried her eyes with his cravat.
“Pay no heed to that bulimic brat.
Her boyish hips and chest so flat
are less arousing than a doormat.
“I like a woman with curves to grasp at,
not one stiff and thin as a bamboo slat,
who purrs in pleasure like a well-fed cat,
not the tiresome whine of a starving gnat.
“Accept this ring of weighty karat
and join me in the islands whereat
I grow the beans that make chocolate
on a small estate called Montserrat.
“I’ll teach you the joys, in that habitat,
of the Kama Sutra and baccarat.”
She took his ring with one caveat—
by night, he’d be bound by her lariat
while she pleasured him like a wanton acrobat—
and fairly ruled, its staunchest advocate,
a vast empire of cocoa and nougat
where she lived happily ever at.
This made me very happy.