He'd sworn that she was not his type, too thin
with, at the most, three-quarters of a mind
and, Geez, that laugh - a gerbil drowned in gin!
He'd stressed again that he abhorred that kind
of wet-lipped tart with slap fit for a clown,
all tawdry flesh and flash, a laughing stock,
hems hoist like flags and necklines plunging down:
sure signs of too much mileage on the clock.
His wife soon read the tale in Visa's sums,
his statements contradicted, line by line;
how odd a modern fairytale becomes
when fantasy and fact and lies combine.
That ugly sister was a myth - instead
he'd had a ball in Cinderella's bed.
If you've any comments on
this poem, M.A. Griffiths
would be pleased to hear