For My Villaintine

Every 14th of February, whether or not
I myself must plough through drifts of scented envelopes
I like to recline, with some fortified wine,
and spare a rare thought,
unbidden, unsought
for the legions of scowl-ridden, lovelorn misanthropes.

I think of Skeletor in his cavernous lair,
cadaverous, a single tear rolling from his socket.
He may be scabrous and unlikely to flare
passions amorous in anyone -
who'd want to bang a skeleton?
No girl's locked his grin in her cleavage-warmed locket.

Even so, I hope Evil-Lynn (who else could win
the lust of our grim harlequin?)
can find the vim to go to him,
a sneer appearing on her burning
scissor-lips, blood-black, trim,
and with criminal allure
that's not subliminal, proffer
her quim (or rim) and take a boning.

Mumm-Ra too must get lonesome on his tod,
and while it's too much to expect Cheetara
to harbour much love for the rankerous sod
(she's too well bred
for bums to bed
or baddies to bum
and would settle instead
for the mettle of Tygra, the vibra-thrum
of her staff in her gash, but I digress...

Where was I? Oh yes.
While it's too much to expect Cheetara,
even under duress, to acquiesce and undress,
other stunning Third Earth fillies are a-

-bundant, and one or two must have a thing
for smelly bandages and mould-ravaged lips.
For a mummy, Mumm-Ra's not untantalising;
The gravelly timbre,
the silent slumber,
the graceful encumber
of that soft, scarlet number
he wears round the pyramid,
eyes that make a killer bid
for post-mortal rhumba,
the power to summon a solar eclipse.

Now that's some come-on from a cunning rum'n,
but if the mouth that lingers during cunnilingus
needs to be pious and sly as a sermon,
Cardinal Richelieu
could make your wish true,
then forgive you if you kiss his ring-ed fingers.

What of the villains' Biggles - what of Dick Dastardly?
He's got his own puppy. Don't girls love puppies?
Plus the feral grin of Errol Flynn - surely some could fall madly
in love with the rogue?
His grating brogue
is much in vogue.
Don't reel, dear ladies - he hasn't got Herpes!

Someone's got to mastermind a Mrs. Moriarty
Blofeld needs the odd 'job from Catherine Deneuve,
and the leader of the Tories, the Conservative Party -
I don't mean to scuttle
by means unsubtle
and sans rebuttal
his dreams of acquittal
- but even he needs a little love.

There's Megatron, Magneto, and even Darth Vader -
I'm sure he'd welcome a saucy letter
saying, "Will you be my Imperial Raider?"
Oh, Cut-throat Jake,
and Liquid Snake
and Chthon from Quake,
and possibly Blake,
whether ruffian or flake,
whether scruffy, thin rake
or stuffy fruitcake,
from Cobra Commander to Joker and Shredder,

I ache with compassion just once a year -
it's not that they're *bad*! Alright, maybe it is,
but everyone needs someone, even if they appear
to be hatching plots
or scratching their crotch
while watching the snot
get kicked out of their henchmen -
OK, they're entrenched in diabolical business

but shouldn't love
find a way?

So do give a thought, if you can, or a prayer.
While you're buried in flowers or lavender soap,
or dining by candlelight, eyeing a pair
of eyes that eye you
by the bay or the bayou
with whites like mayo
and pupils that slay you
and want to lay you,
consider each loveless, little misanthrope.