Zank 'Eavens Poem by chris dawson

That quiet Parisian café
is we’re our lovers met,
he Bohemian artist and
her a student vet,
but the waiter was a menace,
he was slimey, he was bold,
just the sort of animal that made our young vet cold.
They nibbled on sweet pastries,
they sipped their milky brews,
whilst around them sat inhabitants
discussing morning news.
When back returned the serveur,
brushing passed her girly shoulder,
the artist losing patience could
see competition growing bolder.
He needed an assessment,
and made it in a thrice,
lovely hair, graceful air,
and his bum looked rather nice.
That cheesey smile just couldn’t fail
to attract vetinary charms,
if he didn't act now, and promptly,
he could see her in his arms.
“Don’t you love French accents! ”,
were the very words she spoke,
and only served to reinforce
the attraction of this bloke,
“But he might have a gravely voice,
or serious nasal tones,
a lisp, or even suffer worse,
from a lack of pallet bones”.
That’s all he could come up with,
he was groping in the dark,
then from a distant table
he thought he heard a bark.
He waved his hand sincerely,
the respondent minced across,
(it was a calculated gamble,
but he'd show her who was boss) .
“Say weren’t you my Co-Op Milkman,
when I lived in Notting Hill…
who disappeared when I called your firm
about my unpaid bill”
“zat moost av bin ma coozin”
the squirming Romeo croaked,
then bent down to take the artist’s ear,
“I’ll hop it” froggy joked.