The Cantankerous Sorcerer Lord of War, he has sent for me.

Although he was of German and very little French blood,

he loved me more than my very own father could.

I was merely eighteen and he was nearly thirty-three

when he made the demand to be allowed to marry me.

He was the brooding clandestine type,

a murderous recluse with a thirst for gore.

The more my father attempted to dissuade him,

the more demented grew the countenance that he wore.

He’d brood and brood as if his rock guts were in pain,

as if fire and acid spewed and spurted through his veins.

His skin was as soft as baby’s breath shrouded with dew

and on his head contumaciously coiled hairs twined and grew.

His skin was a rather sunny shade of ocher and a light dusk.

His face was all creases and lines, both nose, brows, and lips.

As he watched me with overcast eyes shrouded with unsatisfied lust,

I believed I could feel our potential product of unity stirring between my hips.

Oh, how he’d brood and brood on and on!

His misery would haunt him both day and night and right into the dawn.

He’s festering and goading his very own wounds,

so, it was clear to see many were unsurprised when he met his doom.

My lovely brave Cantankerous Sorcerer Lord of War

would have been mine, I could have sworn,

but my father’s oppression hindered me to say no more.

Oh, my knight, my pitiful Sir Alexi Mune Floyd,

ye who is the beginner of all things that destroy,

you’d brood, fizz, fuss, fuzz, fume, and fester.

It is no wonder I did not stir

when my father related that you’d given yourself the ulcer.

My darling brave and valiant mercurial sorcerer,

you’d spit spite with a daunting list of expletives

in the face of my father who was resolved that your love remained unrequited.

The day then came that you inhaled your last whiff of absinth

and declared your acquiescence by drinking.

I rejected my father’s command and then I ran.

I ran to your house down by the besotted willows, the belladonna, and the Jeer Mist Lake,

only to see that my efforts were futile as I had arrived too late.

There by your cold and inert side,

I cradled your heavy head, opened the ducts and was given to cry.

My gallant, amorous lover of war,

the boon companion of all things that destroy.

I could have sworn as the villagers led me away,

that on your cerulean lips played the scent of Nephilim’s dandelion,

an herb that only grew on my father’s perilous vine.

This made it clear to me,

that someone had taken mon petit-ami¹ and stolen him away from me.