The French
Kate & Mike

Part 9

Kate:   Oh, get that bread away from me!
It reeks of Frenchness foul!
I will not have its thrusting crust
Intruding on my bowel.
I can't and shall not turn to French,
So set about your worst.
You'll never, ever pull it off,
You'd have to kill me first.

Your spitting mouth and droopy 'tash,
They have no business here.
Your garlic stinking breath of doom,
You're quite, quite French I fear.
Oh Mikey! Mikey! Is it true?
Please tell me that it's not!
Or I shall open up my arse
And stuff it with a yacht.

Mike:   Foolish, foolish words, my friend,
You surely do not know
The powers of my one point three
Four metres of baked dough.
No power on earth can save you now
Not even your mum or granny.
Every part of you will be as
Smelly as your fanny.

And so I raise my lengthy loaf
Preparing for the plunge
Your body will just yield to it
As though it were a sponge.
"Haw he haw he haw he haw!"
Is all I have to say
And as I strike a perfect hit
I cry out loud, "Touché!"

Kate:   A perfect hit? Don't make me laugh!
You couldn't hit a nailed down giraffe!
Your brain is mush, your eyes all squiffy,
Too long, too close to your arse so whiffy.
Your mouth is droopy,
Your nose like Snoopy,
I don't know why you think you're hard,
But I've seen you naked! It's just skin and lard!
You think I'm just some passive wench,
That you can turn from Brit to French
Whenever the fancy deems to strike?
You think that you can do this, Mike?
Well, heed my words, and heed them well,
Not EVER will you make me smell,
Like croissants, buttered tall and thick,
Or cheese that stinks of someone's sick,
Or vineyards ripe with fruit and sun,
Or currents from some Frenchman's bun,
Or French salami, moist and pink,
I'll never be French! I don't care what you think!
I'd rather be a rampant wombat.
And just to prove it, I'm messing with this poem's format!

Anarchy! Sweet anarchy!
I will not let you repress me!
You might be French but you'll never undress me!

And if I want
I'll refuse to make
This rhyme
Or scan
As well.
Just so you can tell
I will never smell.
So go to Hell.
You're nothing but a pissed up tramp living on a park bench.

And you will never make me French.

The French
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