by J.B. Sisson
In 1666 there lived a duke
whose angels told him, “All the world is crude.
Ignore the fools who call you Monsieur Prude.
Proud Duke of Mazarin, flounce your peruke
and give your kitchenmaids a sharp rebuke.
You’ve seen them milk the cows with fingers rude
and a sly squeeze. You know their thoughts are lewd.
No wonder these punk hoydens make you puke.”
Those puckish angels filled the duke with dread.
Eventually his fickle duchess fled.
He called his servants to his potting shed
and, since he had become a tulip, said,
“Transplant me to my favorite flower bed
and every day spray water on my head.”