she dreamt of being a pink rotund
what she got was somewhere between Garbo and Groucho.
Kissed the boys and made them cry,
bit like onion squamous epithelia-
but gravy’d be so bland without it.
She dreamt of running
like the Earnshaw lass on those
heathery moors in the dark,
half crazed with tempestuous passions,
windswept and erotic; hair whipped
all eyes and teeth and banshee bared.
But she knew that falling into a peat bog in a see through nightie
bearing a batty full moon
was more her style.
Often a daydream would lead to D’arcy
and his reserved sarcasm.
This Lizzie couldn’t dance either,
but she had a penchant for words
(and the bosoms for an empire line).
Realistically, locking in an attic
is whats best.
As long as I get a good book.
And maybe some matches.
Happy Samhein! 😀