Aesthetically impaired, she was the heir
to daddy’s fortune. She was plumpish, short
and much too close together were the eyes.
She hankered after marriage with a man
to birth at least a daughter and a son.
Alas! She wasn’t what you’d call an English rose.

Her parent’s expectations sharply rose
upon the news there was an eligible heir.
He was the wealthy meat purveyor’s son.
They curried favour swiftly, time was short,
to marry off their daughter to a man
who wouldn’t mind contortion of the eyes.

The father looked the daughter in the eyes.
“You’ll meet him in the Garden of the Rose
at 10 o’clock, he’s not a daylight man.”
All through the day she gaily walked on air,
imagining her cottage, grass cut short
for picnics with her daughter and her son

awaiting home the meat purveyor’s son.
She prayed he wouldn’t mind about the eyes
and hoped he wasn’t tall as she was short.
She gave herself a squirt of ‘Musky Rose’,
then skipped to meet her eligible heir
convinced he was, for her, the perfect man.

The meat purveyor’s son, a weasley man,
was under orders soon to have a son.
Inheritance depended on an heir.
He’d seen the look that day in father’s eyes,
and thanked the gods this golden chance arose.
His gambling addiction left him short.

He wasn’t awful fussed if she was short,
as long as she was desperate for a man.
He spotted her behind the petalled rows.
She dared to kiss the meat purveyor’s son,
though noticed a contortion of the eyes.
She sensed a common bonding in the air.

The meat purveyor’s son picked her a rose.
In short, she knew by then she’d bagged her man
and soon was born an eye-contorted heir.