A story about how much a guy is willing to overlook in order to be with the girl of his dreams, or nightmares…
It was an evening just like this,
The moon was full and bright,
When hapless bachelor seeking bliss
Instead found endless fright.
It started when the lonesome lad
Stepped out to take a stroll,
To think of twisted day he’d had,
Untwine its griping toll.
A beauty who’d oft made him stutter
Had played a major part:
When he confessed she made him flutter,
She answered with a fart.
Although embarrassed, she laughed more
At him than at herself.
‘Twas then against all dames he swore,
Put heart upon a shelf.
While brooding on his recent crush
He wandered far from home,
And found himself within the brush,
Sans jacket and alone.
With sudden dread he realized
That he’d become quite lost,
And brooded more that woman prized
For him was still such cost.
“I can’t believe I’m all alone
And lost in wooded park;
I even left without my phone.
At least it isn’t dark!”
An icy breeze then swept in close
On silver-shining heath,
Insinuating through his clothes,
And creeping from beneath.
While outwardly he stood and shivered,
Wrapped in frigid vale,
Inside, his trampled heart now quivered.
Alone he was, and frail.
“I must be getting close to death,”
Dramatically he mused.
“For I can scarcely catch my breath,
And mind is all confused.”
For so it seemed from where he stood,
As vision now unfolded:
A paragon of womanhood
As though by heaven molded.
Mere feet before him she appeared,
As though from winter air.
He had seen no one there before,
And surely none so fair.
Dressed was she in dark black mane,
In waves down to her hips.
Her tresses were her only skein,
Embossed with cherry lips.
The lips were pursed as though in pucker,
Her finger beckoned closer.
No longer now was he a sucker,
No longer lonesome loser.
He stumbled closer to the fox,
His face an ashen pale,
The wrapped his arms around her locks–
To feel a bushy tale!
Incapable of one more shock,
He mused that this was fine.
What he felt further made him balk–
Not single tail she had, but nine!
A nine-tailed fox stood in his arms,
A beauty sans compare.
So overwhelming were her charms,
Of tails he didn’t care.
Yet still as cherry lips he pressed,
He wondered at her form.
“I like a lot the way she’s dressed
But she’s outside the norm.”
The many-tailed fox then spoke,
In liquid girlish voice:
“What think you of my hair-weave cloak?
Of tails, I have no choice
“Unless a special man I find
A kind and caring giver,
A man who’ll de-tail my behind
By giving of his liver.”
He froze on way to second kiss,
Unsure what he had heard.
A vital organ he must miss
To free where she was furred?
He stammered out a syllable
While standing overawed.
“Yes,” she mouthed, “my tail full
For chewing on your bod.”
Then silently he stood, transfixed,
Agape with open maw.
How is it beauty’s always mixed
With some gigantic flaw?
“Quickly mortal, you must choose,
For I’ve no time to tarry.
Decide my love to win or lose;
I tire of nine tails hairy.”
At this, the goddess licked her lips
And eyed her new beau’s belly.
He felt her pressing with her hips,
Which turned his will to jelly.
A month or more since then has passed,
And both love blissfully.
For she is shorn of tails at last,
While he’s a zombie, liver free.
If any moral may be had
From this unlikely pair:
An organ in exchange for tail
Is bargain more than fair.