Rather than beshrew with a stake drove
Beating through her immortal blood-welling heart
I took her uptown to a nosey French café
She sat fiddling with her crisp pale napkin
Under the checkered table cloth
And noticed not a thing
As they all looked past us among the mountain scenery
And the chef personally replenished her plate
Every thirty minutes
She cared not for the garlic hanging
Nor did I care for my course
Nor did I care for my course
Watching her suffocate in the grease and fat
Of a medium-rare she ordered thrice over
For by the opening of my parlor door
Her swollen complexion knelt to the ground
And oozed, a melted and defecated blob,
Upon my newly–waxed tiles 
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