Three Graces on a promenade,
pretending to be Greek,
gave their favors readily
along the Chesapeake.
Their stream of suitors steadily
grew longer every week
as dozens drowned in their facades,
some younger, some antique.
It wasn’t how they “oohed” or “ahhed”
that formed their great mystique,
but was, in fact, an act of God
that made them each unique.
(No fellow ever hemmed or hawed
once he had had a peek.)
It wasn’t how they la-de-dahhed
that made magnifique.
But when these Graces oom-pah-pahhed
their suitors reached a peak
that left each fellow over-awed
by their sheer technique.
Of course, in time, the thrills grow flawed;
the glow will leave the cheek.
These Graces know their bed will be
a slow boat up the creek.
Prayer for a Pandemic
Comments are closed.