The Scamp (and the love of his life)

The Lady curtsies low to taste an egg

of past-tense vittles, half the size

of her dainty pixie seal-smooth head;

and the Prince, royal with denim jeans,

does not demur and polishes

their gleaming orange disc instead.

 

A leering bipedal brute,

unshorn in plaid and cowhide coat,

points and drools and chuffs at them,

as his mate picks at her cuticles

and wipes some snot on a mohair sleeve.

Catching each others gazes, they growl

over what meat to eat upon returning

to their shared wooden dwelling

in the middle of their yard.

 

And so, as the magic hour rings its golden bell,

the cow-licked Prince and jingling Lady,

with his hard-earned scabbed and knobby knees

and her spit-shined snaggle-toothed smile,

bound by love and leash alike,

twirl forward, a splendid cotillion for two,

parading home for their gruel ambrosia and tea.