A Werewolf one Sabbath spied a young faire maiden,
Her legs dairywhite & palmpushably doughy.
Behind each knee, he shivered to see: a fang-deep dimple.
The Werewolf adjusted the lace at his collar,
Snugged on his kid gloves and approached accordingly.
“I Prithee, Damosel, may I join thee on this day so strombulent?”
The girl looked up, blew the bangs from her eyes, and popped a pink bubble,
“It’s a free woild, ain’t it?”
The Werewolf, encouraged, matched his stride to hers, jaunty-booted.
Raising his exquisite cane, he tapped it upon the tome she carried.
“Ah, a scholar, a GentleLady of the Arts & Philosophies,
Praytell, what doth thee study?”
“Nah, I’m just returnin’ it for my auntie—back to the liberry.”
At this the Werewolf paused and endeavored to correct his desire,
But he could not reach the wolfish cravings of his breeches.
Conversely, he grew more emboldened.
O Love’s Feast, to tussle with her bustle, ruffle her furbelow!
“Miss—” he said, enunciating carefully, “should I wed thee—could I bed thee?”
“You mean have a big ol’ pellow fight?” the young lady gushed.
Suddenly, the Werewolf’s claws shot straight through his gloves
As he bellowed with anger, “Pillow! Madam, the word is pillow!—
And there is no ‘berry’ in library, only books on the subject.
Madam, I’ll have you know I’m descended from the finest of bloodlines—
Les Loups Garous, authentic French Warwoolfes—Sorbonne us all.
And I must say your grammatic manglings are nothing but a swift kick in the giblets.”
The maiden snickered. “Well looky there, Mistah Big Stuff.
You think I don’t know what’s going on?
You ain’t foolin’ nobody with that rug. It’s the worstest I ever seen.
What was it called when you ordered it from the wig catalogue—‘The Barzilla’?”
The Werewolf’s eyes grew wide. Her frankness both pierced and excited him.
“And them teeth?” she continued. “Store-bought chompers if I ever seen ’em.
How you think you’s gonna get a dame with them grimacing in a glass on the nightstand?”
The Werewolf broke down sobbing. “Sacré bleu. I am revealed!
Why O why must it be that Warwoolfes exist only in the minds of those
With an overabundance of melancholia? Goth slackers, eyeshadowed slatterns.
I’m merely a figment of the imagination of latchkey broodlings!”
“Yeah,” the maiden responded, chawing on her gum, “but as I sees it,
You’s a metaphor for puberty—the realization of full life force just beginning.
Now that’s sumpin’ dang powerful for them kids who is just all gawky and transformin’.”
“Good gracious,” the Werewolf said, “how be it one possesses such wisdom?”
“We had to do chores growing up.”
“Chores?” said the Werewolf.
“It ain’t yer fault,” the girl assured. “What is privilege
But more downtime to be neurotic? I always say.
You’s highfalutin upbringin’ robbed you the esperience
To define who the hell you is, that’s why you’s messed up.”
The Werewolf again began weeping.
The maiden took him in her arms and petted his head from time to time
Careful not to disturb his toupee, lest he be wounded afresh.
“Poor little Shapeshifta. Poor little Wuff.”