King In Waiting,
Former Air Marshal of the National Hot Air Balloon Fleet,
Moisturiser in Chief to the Gangs of the Realm,
Shines his cuff links,
Slaps on some brisk aftershave,
And checks his toupee.
His suit is impeccable.
His blue suede shoes cut a dash.
Nothing has been left to chance.
The Baron rattles across town
In his peasant subsidised Tesla jalopy,
Carefully avoiding the giant potholes
And battalions of road cones.
He is armed with a bottle of champagne
And a dozen velvety red roses
He arrives at his destination.
He sweeps up the front path.
He rings the bell confidently.
He does not feel confident.
The moment of truth!
The door slowly swings open.
There, in a slinky black gown,
Cigarette in long holder,
Stands Winnie the Vamp,
Femme Fatale, Siren, Enchantress,
Heart breaker of a thousand coalitions.
The nervous suitor standing on the doorstep
Is granted an appraising glance.
But Winnie’s roving eye stops on a magenta toad,
With a rose held between its flubbery lips,
Perched on the Baron’s right shoulder.
“What’s with the gooseberry?” snaps Winnie.
“Dave’s the name,” replies the beady eyed amphibian,
with an impertinent nod towards the mute Baron.
“And I do the talking for both of us.”