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'Twas a fine spring day, as fine as fine
Can be, and yet a lone young gent
Would mope and weep, and wail and pine,
And rend all ears with his lament.
A maiden fair (if maid she be,
In this age, who may ask or tell?)
Inquired of him, "Good sir, prithee-
What ails you? For you seem unwell."
A sonorous sob did issue forth,
Proceeded by a wad of phlegm.
And began he a sad discourse,
A tale of he that chaseth hems.
"A lass, so fair, Fair paled beside her,
Was my one and own true love.
But one spring morn, with I astride her,
She gaveth me a mighty shove."
"What was the cause," the maid enquired
"Of her displeasure? For in all fact
A lass may shove when much is desired
Of he that will voyage her silken tract."
"In truth, all truth," the lad divulged,
"'Tis true, I'm sure I was at fault.
For at her friend, my eyes, they bulged,
And she, at this, was much distraught."
"Well suits you then, this ill respite
Which gave her cause to deny you her favour."
So quoth the maid, pious despite
Her decidedly deodorant-sprayed flavour.
Sadly did he admit, the lad,
That she was right, though with no despair.
For she he craved, and he visited her
With a Machivellian stare.
So he proposed to the maid, if she would
Join with him? Quoth she: "How do you figure?"
She lifted her skirt, his manhood stood,
But then he found out hers was bigger.
© 1997 cosmobimbo@hotmail.com
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