The night was quiet, still as stone
And in an estate most grand
Lord Pennyworth of Lanshire
Prepared to hatch his final plan.
He stood atop society’s elite.
A vast fortune, the finest house.
His intellect was unparalleled,
And yet he could not find a spouse.
For although the debutantes
Found Pennyworth satisfying,
Anyone short of his perfection
Would be less than gratifying.
Each bachelorette he visited
As a diligent gentleman caller,
He itemized their pleasing traits
And recorded them like a scholar.
His notes had reached completion,
And he took pride in his placement,
Arranging his favorite pieces
Of each woman in his basement.
The soft skin of Cherilyn,
Lady Angelina’s lips,
The teeth from Esmeralda’s mouth
And Felberta’s birthing hips.
The golden hair from Dahlia,
And Desdemona’s calf.
Jolene’s bright and shining eyes
Without her annoying laugh.
With everything in its place
And forbidden chemicals applied,
A stir came from the pile
He had shaped into a bride.
She rose with poise and elegance,
Beauty at its very peak.
She sauntered slowly toward him
And in an angel’s voice did speak.
“You have built me to be flawless,
But the surface has not been scratched.
Although I am pleasing to the eye,
I need an intellect to match.”
She grabbed him before he could flee,
And put him on his carving table.
He bemoaned his taste for muscles
As she fastened him with cables.
She then produced his trusty saw,
Which from overuse had dulled.
She ignored his screams and pleas
As she ran it through his skull.
So let Pennyworth serve as warning
To you bachelors seeking action.
There’s more to the perfect woman
Than mere physical attraction.