Hitherto had the hamlet suspected Clem
Of lewd conduct with citrus in Bethlehem,
But their slurs, she averted,
And tartly asserted,
“When life gives you lemons, have sex with them.”
“It’s over” she croaked, choking back sallow tears,
To her lover, aquiver with dread,
“Your perversion has worsened, affirming my fears,
I’ll enable you no further, Ned.”
Ned brushed her pale cheek with his clammy, grey hands,
Gently stroking her dull, thinning hair,
Which promptly fell out into wet, moldered strands,
As his eyes met her cold, lifeless stare.
“Since last spring, when I killed you, increasingly clear
Has the answer become, sweet Amelia,
For, now that I too am dead, technically, dear,
It appears we’ve cured my necrophilia.”
When they kissed, his thin lips fell off into her teeth,
And her jawbone dislodged from her head,
But ’twas plain as the maggots a-wriggling beneath,
Long their love would live on — though undead.
Dwalin stood dwarven, deformed and grotesque,
Ever-bent by a hard, hamstrung hunch,
Driven mad by implacable lust for burlesque,
And a one-eyed, French flapper named Monche.
The myopic madam, not without her charms,
Bore a glass eye, white, rheumy and still,
That reflected light onto her pustuled arms,
Which she proudly would rupture at will.
“Money up front, mon amour, s’il vous plaît,”
Hissed her voice through a phlegm-laced veneer,
Smiling sweetly, her scabby tongue slithered its way
Into that which remained of his ear.
If their passion affected the business, although,
The burlesque house was not apt to gauge,
For most just presumed it was part of the show,
As they generally fucked on the stage.