adventures in dysthymia

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Ogress, a poem

Ogress

Don’t ogle an ogress, she might take it wrong
and snatch you right up to carry you home;
you know that an ogress is far too strong
to escape her arms. You’ll never more roam

but stay in her cave, to cook and to clean,
to mind all the lumpy children you gave her —
yes, every litter, they’ll come to sixteen —
and fear to explain that you no longer crave her.

When passion is dead, you may well be too,
another exile from an ogress’ bed,
and likely enough to end up in a stew;
at least the kiddies will be well fed.

Don’t ogle an ogress, eye-contact’s a risk,
but if it occurs, know it could be worse;
at least the love making is sure to be brisk
and a grunt is sufficient when you must converse.

The prospects of taking an ogress in marriage
would seem rather slim — that’s admittedly true;
but this is a warning you’d best not disparage —
there might be one out there looking for you!

Stephen Brooke ©2017

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