Macabre Without Candelabra
Phileas was so supercilious. His behavior at the ball was deleterious to all.
In the interest of decorum, I shoved him into the hall.
He fell on his sore bum and produced a gun.
“Don’t spoil the fun.” I whispered slyly.
He put it away. Shyly.
But I could tell his mind was still wily.
“Rather than producing a pistol, you would be wise to compose an apologetic epistle.”
He was deaf to my lecture, and I made ready to contact the nearby prefecture.
Suddenly, he seemed to remember his tact,
and I took note of this fact.
“It’s not my forgiveness, my good man, that you lack.
And, not that it’s any of my business, but I’d suggest
now isn’t the time to go back.”
He stared meanly in the hall’s dimness.
Despite his dumb appearance, he answered keenly:
“I did not mean any interference, but some of those gents were, to me, quite unseemly.”
I recalled that the assembly next door did contain proud Clarence,
two atrocious sisters, and their abominable parents.
And he had been misused by a notorious boor:
the unreasonable Sir Terrence.
As I considered it, every soul in there was rotten to the core.
“Would you find it unfeasible, if you care, to again unholster that weapôn?”
He smiled and said, “I knew we two would famously get on.”
I admitted I was seeing the world in his color: red.
“I haven’t a rifle, but this will serve in its stead.”
The dagger, which I produced, was no trifle.
We came into the ballroom, a pair.
These human beasts were at ease in their lair.
I approached the detestable Sybil as if I had an important question to ask her.
She could not have produced a syllable.
My poignard in her throat—-
that’s what started the massacre.
They were dead sooner than fish on a boat.
We bathed in their blood,
it turned to mud,
and ruined the Persian rugs.
We drank red wine from coarse mugs, and devoured the leftover drugs.
And, today, Phileas and I are such good friends it’s divine.