Azure

‘Are you sure it's azure?’ said the lady in red.
‘I mean it's pure and demure but it's not what he said.
I thought white might be right for such a dark night
But my husband fears rain (he knows no delight).
The blue in my head was a more fabulous thread
But this looks so dour, so limp, so dead.’

‘It's turquoise to my eyes’ said the chap known for lies,
‘Most flattering and svelte over your thighs.
For my tuppence ha’penny (which I donate for free)
I do savour the graver tones of velvet
Like the humbler black number you wore when we met.’

‘Yes dear, that’s sweet, but the people of wealth
Know what clothes show, though I don’t know myself.
Black has been done, it’s no fun and for some
It’s the sartorial hun, a past violence that’s done.
If you want a brave feat for your fidgeting feet
Then a find me an outfit that’s proper and neat.’

‘But my lady so lean, I know not what you mean
It brings out your eyes, such a valuable green.
If you will not wear black then give me your back.
I’ll undo this brace for your most angelic spine
And please do not be modest for the pleasure’s all mine.’

So trusting, this thing (idly rubbing her band),
Turned to the mirror and conceded his hand.
‘Is emerald too bold? It’s been hinted, not told,
That my robe from last year should not have been sold.
That it was gay and vibrant, like sweet nature’s grant
Of a springtime sweet flower, grown to enchant.’

‘Hush now sweet child, you were born to be mild,
And your shoulders (so pale!) could not be defiled
By a strong, vulgar green; you would seem too mean.’
But to flatter was no matter for his hands did roam
From the corset that she let him treat like a home

She flinched from his pinch, new fear in her thought,
As an inch of the yard of his ought was now caught.
So she spun with one mind, tongue strung like a gun
And with a murderous click her venom was sung,
‘Sir you will hence, your vile manners to fence
for the pennies they’d buy from the sexually tense.’

So with the game not the same - for our player’s not lame -
He grinned a new grin for he’d no longer refrain
From the single sweet end he did want from his friend.
‘Don’t rage, please be sage. My dear act your age!
Just lie down, do not frown, let this be your stage.’

And with a tense, yet immense, tight grace in her tongue
She fired such dense and hard sense for someone so young.
‘From quite cute to sour brute, please meet my boot.’
And her foot so did rise, and it’s voice made him mute.
Then lifting a bust (of papa, if you must)
She regarded her foe, now less man, more toe.

‘As for your spiel, flattering me for a queen,
Stop it at once, I know not what you mean’
So with a meritous clunk, bust bounced of his head.
With her valour assured and the clamour demurred
She thus strode from the room, her conundrum not cured.