(a tongue-in-cheek fairy tale)
Low down in meadowlands lies Genevieve,
her star-strewn hair in artful dissarray.
With bee-stung lips, a rose pinned to her sleeve,
she sets a trap to spirit men away
from local lasses, ladies set to play
tin whistles for their loves on Hallowmas.
She weaves her wiles into a rondelet
to stow among her herbs and lemongrass.
In a den of final howls where young girls thieve
unquiet hearts of wolves, the passageway
is lit by black eyes sparking to deceive.
Gen sets her trap and spirits him away
into the wood�s abyss. When near halfway
to metaphoric worlds, his compass glass
is cracked � its regal case of cloisonn�,
she stows among her herbs and lemongrass.
Hear, hear, success! A mission well-conceived!
She smiles, drinks deeply of her muscadet.
Mesmeric hunter of the unachieved,
she�d set her trap to spirit him away
to arcane woods beyond the light of day.
The sands of time freeze in her hourglass �
he drowns himself in her, d�collet�,
perfumed with spicy herbs and lemongrass.
Beware this Genevieve, dark-eyed and fey
who will spring her trap and spirit away
your husbands, sons and lovers � yea, alas! �
to stow among her herbs and lemongrass.
�2006 by PJ Nights
