Our prompt today was to write a ballad—a narrative poem worthy of being set to music with a rhyme scheme of ABAB and alternating 8 and 6 syllable iambic lines. Here is mine.
The Ballad of Poor Molly
Poor Molly Smith was lonely sure
on every weekend night.
No lover had she to insure
an end to her sad plight.
She’d read of match.com and then
eHarmony and others.
No more would she be chickless hen
if she could have her druthers.
She took her keyboard in her hand
to find a true love there,
for sparsely was the household manned
of this poor maiden fair.
She put her name upon a site
and waited for some word.
A day went by and then a night,
but nothing had she heard.
Her profile words were erudite,
written with such care.
Everything was done just right,
yet no man found she there.
She started blogging all day long,
“liked” members’ every word;
but still something was very wrong.
She found it all absurd.
Other women found true love
On OkCupid, but
no pierced heart, no cooing dove
released her from her rut.
She sought her profile to imbue
and stretched the truth, I fear.
Her hair turned blonde, her bust size grew,
her beauty knew no peer.
She found a picture of some tart
both sexy, tanned and toned.
Perhaps it wasn’t really smart,
but soon a suitor phoned.
They made a date to meet for drinks,
then she began to worry.
Her hair had all these ugly kinks,
her upper lip was furry.
Her height was five-foot-four, not eight,
her dress size twelve, not six.
How could she show up for this date?
Poor Mol was in a fix.
She read his profile once again:
handsome, rich and funny.
She felt a surge of pure chagrin.
He’d humor, looks and money?
She printed up his profile pic
and pinned it to her couch.
His skin was bronzed, his muscles thick,
while she was flabby. Ouch!
She took a bottle to her hair
And died it light as flax,
bought heels as high as she could dare
and tummy-control slacks.
She ran three miles or more that day
(or she more likely walked);
and thought about what she would say
If her new suitor balked.
Could medication swell one out
for twenty pounds or more?
Would he accept without a doubt
This apologetic lore?
The time grew short. She bathed and fussed
and straightened out her hair.
Her body girdled, squeezed and trussed––
to sit she didn’t dare.
She’d take a bus and spend the ride
standing in the aisle.
The acid churning her inside
was turning into bile.
She grabbed her purse and locked the door
and sprinted for the bus.
Her girdle crawled an inch or more.
It made her want to cuss.
She tugged it down, got on the bus
and tried to stand erect.
One way out of all this muss
would be to have a wreck!
The driver drove with extra care
to take her to her meal.
Yet when she wobbled down the stair,
she broke one three-inch heel.
By then her hair had kinked again,
her girdle slowly rose.
She had peroxide on her chin
and also on her nose.
She almost left, gave in to doubt;
but then she stopped to think.
Her curiosity won out.
She’d stay for just one drink.
She saw him just as soon as she
had entered in the door.
He was tall and golly, gee
was handsome, fit and more!
She ducked into the ladies room
to tame her crazy hair
and contemplate upcoming doom.
What an unlikely pair!
Then gathered all her courage up
and went to meet her fate.
She’d have a drink, forget the sup
and end this nightmare date.
She walked right up and tapped his arm
and said his name,”Dupree?”
And when he turned, his look was warm,
but he said, “That isn’t me.”
She felt a touch upon her hair
and turned to find out who
or what had deigned to touch her where
she’d recently changed hue.
A little man about her height,
really cute, but chubby, too,
was chuckling with all his might
and looking at her shoe.
“What in heaven happened to you?”
he asked, and then he snatched
and snapped the heel right off her shoe
so both of her heels matched.
“My name’s Dupree,” he said, “You’re you.
I’d know you anywhere.
You’re tall and slim, your eyes are blue,
your hair is straight and fair.
I hope you’re not too mad at my
I’m really not too bad a guy
no matter what they say.
I know I stretched the truth a bit.
Not all I say is true,
but how else would I find a fit
with such a babe as you?”
She went into the ladies room
and slipped out of her girdle.
The date foreseen with dread and gloom
was not the foretold hurdle.
They ate four courses, then one more.
They laughed and traded quips.
He drove her home right to her door
and kissed her on the lips!
Now Molly’s nest is feathered.
Of chicks, she numbers three.
And Dupree is firmly tethered
with Molly on his knee.