Rather than beshrew with a stake drove

Beating through her immortal blood-welling heart

I took her uptown to a nosey French café

 

She sat fiddling with her crisp pale napkin

Under the checkered table cloth

And noticed not a thing

As they all looked past us among the mountain scenery

And the chef personally replenished her plate

Every thirty minutes  

 

She cared not for the garlic hanging

Nor did I care for my course

Watching her suffocate in the grease and fat

Of a medium-rare she ordered thrice over

 

For by the opening of my parlor door

Her swollen complexion knelt to the ground

And oozed, a melted and defecated blob,

Upon my newly–waxed tiles