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He said . . .

I will make you my Helen of Troy, dearest one,
Disguise the crow’s feet that you own.
Your beauty shall shine, as pure as the sun,
Your torso a stretch mark free zone.

Your radiant smile shall be that of a Goddess;
At the curve of your hips, men will cry.
Just the sight of that bosom which strains at your bodice,
Well, the world and its wife shall then sigh.

I can make you a legend, a beauty, a siren,
Obliterate folds, rectify fraying seams.
I will smooth over shadows, and skin that is tiring,
And make you a Venus, beyond all your dreams.

All I ask in exchange, as reward, my dear heart,
Is your love and devotion, forever.
To win such a prize, and never to part,
‘Tis surely my life’s great endeavour!

She said . . .

Why dear sir, I am honoured, you flatter me so,
Yet still manage to include all my faults.
Perhaps I might flatten your beer belly, no?
Consign hairy ears to the vaults?

Or your two smelly feet, like old cheese in a sock,
Have them banished forthwith in a trice.
Replace your sad tool with Priapus’ proud cock,
I can’t deny that would be nice.

He said . . .

Now don’t be like that, my dearest of pearls,
For such gifts one but rarely amasses.
You seem so ungrateful, though I still love your curls,
And you sweat less than other fat lasses.

She said . . .

Look, we know; you’re a writer, I don’t give a hoot,
Slams the laptop lid down with one blow —
Knuckles trapped fast , fingers to boot . . . 

Now stop being
a tit Stan, the lawn needs a mow.