Memories of Massachusetts

People are oft confused when they hear the word Massachusetts,
Particularly if it is in the contest of a competitive oral spelling test,
As it really is a hard word with a single "s" where you least expect it.
But I digress from the purpose of my poem here today
Even before I get properly started on its composition. Alas!
What a lovely commonwealth this American state is -
How many happy holiday hours have I spent there,
Exploring its highways and byways, on foot and by car,
And not forgetting a few thousand hops on my trusty pogo-stick.

I recall one balmy summer evening on Cape Cod, near Harwich
(which the locals delightfully and innocently mispronounce),
Together with a charming young woman who had boldly
Propositioned me when I was pogo-ing past her colonial-style veranda
And, as I write down these words, my eyes stream with hot tears
(mainly because of the twelve onions I have just peeled
to spice up a bland clam chowder, but also because of her dreadful doom).

Unfortunately I cannot recall the lady's name - possibly I forgot to ask
Such was the instant animal attraction which consumed us,
Its superhuman strength obliterating the need for meaningless chat,
Its force leading us into her boudoir for an eager bit of the other.
After our frenzied horizontal session 'sur le job', I have to confess
We were sudating spectacularly and, since I also needed to micturate
(always a wise precaution post-coitum with a complete stranger
my personal venerealogist has frequently advised me, I should note),
I nipped off to her en-suite facilities to pump out a pint or two,
And to give myself a general wipe-down for hygiene's sake.

Such was my depth of concentration on my toilet arrangements
I totally failed to hear the fair damsel's husband premature return
And thus I was somewhat surprised to find my ex-bedmate slain
By a single stroke of the mighty cavalry sword I had noticed on the wall.
Next, the recently cuckolded husband emitted a piffero-like warble of rage
And rushed towards my person, his savage sword in his trembling paw,
But God was on my side that day: hubby tripped on a rug and bust his neck.

Being well-informed, I was well aware that the last Massachusetts execution
Was as long ago as '47, but I also knew full well the bloodthirsty citizens
Had been repeatedly trying to reinstate the death penalty for over fifty years,
And it would be just my luck if they succeeded whilst I lay in Old Boston Clink.
Thus I re-dressed marginally hurriedly in my elegant English clobber
And remounted my waiting pogo-stick to continue my jolly journey
With yet another well-earned amatory scalp under my proverbial belt.
But, that evening in my AAA-recommended bijou bed and breakfast inn,
I came to the wise conclusion that mayhap an early flight home beckoned
(remember I had left a pretty huge DNA sample with my late lamented lady love).
And I can say without fear of contradiction that no one was gladder than I
To see next day the runway lights of Logan disappear into the distance,
Whilst sipping a rather tasty Business Class cocktail and idly checking out
Which of the happy smiling (but portly) American Airlines stewardesses
Was most likely to be in the market for a casual knee-trembler in the toilet
(and a generous sized tip from me) once the feature film had started.