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He said…

I will make you my Helen of Troy dearest one,
Disguise the crow’s-feet that you own.
Your beauty shall shine, as pure as the sun,
Erasing stretch marks long and old.

Your radiant smile shall be that of a Goddess,
At the curve of your hips men will cry.
Just the sight of that bosom which strains at your bodice,
Well the world and its wife, shall then sigh.

I can make you a legend, a beauty, a siren,
Obliterating folds, fixing up fraying seams.
I will smooth over shadows, and skin that is tiring,
And make you a Venus, beyond all your dreams.

All I ask in exchange, as reward my dear heart,
Is your love and devotion, for ever.
To win such a prize, and never to part,
Tis surely my life’s greatest endeavour?!

She said…

Why dear sir I am honoured, you flatter me so,
Yet still manage to include all my faults.
Perhaps I should erase your big beer belly no?
Consign hairy ears to the vaults?

Or your two smelly feet, like old cheese in a sock,
I could banish them off in a trice.
And replace meat and veg with Apollo’s huge cock,
I can’t deny that would be nice.

He said…

Now don’t be like that, my dearest of pearls,
For as gifts go, so few would surpass.
You seem so ungrateful, though I still love your curls,
And you don’t sweat much for a fat lass.

She said…

Look we know, you’re a writer, I don’t give a hoot,
(Slams his laptop lid down with a blow,
Crushing his knuckles, and fingers to boot
).
Now stop being a tit Stan – the lawn needs a mow.

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