Lil' Miss Muffet's Tuffet

Little Miss Muffet
Lit a smoke and she puffed it
Whilst she made out her list for the day

A trip to the store
A walk on the moor
Cleaning the fridge of curdled whey

"Cr?me' de la cr?me"
Thought the bereft bohemme
And she sauntered back down the way

Sat down on the bed
Scratched at her head
Tried to remember why she was there

He hands made a trace
Down the side of her face
And she pulled, strand by strand, at her hair

Little Miss Muffet
Lit a smoke and then snuffed it
Remembering she was instructed to quit.

The doctors had told her
That she was only getting older
And if she wanted a child this was it

She peered at the nook
Where she kept her little black book
And contemplated who she should call

Mark from the bank?
Tom, George or Frank?
It had been a week since she'd conquered Paul.

Refraining of sorts
Was the worst of aborts
Made the walls of her uterus ache

The longing for one
The love of someone
Someone not on the take.

Her fingers and naval
Intertwined and unstable
And she remembered she was unable to bear

She cried and aloud
She wondered just how
Anyone would feel in this air?

She removed all her clothes
Her body exposed
To the wiles of the insects in her room

And along came the spider
And crawled up inside her
And lay its own eggs into her womb.