Poetry Month: It's That Time of the Month

It's That Time of the Month

Gather round and hear the tale of the Monthly Match-make Man;
"A new girl every thirty days!" - that was his playboy plan.
"When you find out that she's not right and not quite what you wish you
Can put her into storage, and just wait for next month's issue!"
(It's clear you shouldn't emulate just 'cause you are in Rome;
This "just in case" is to cover all bases: kids, don't try this at home.)

He met the first young lady on a summer afternoon,
And when he did, his stomach slid, and made his insides swoon.
She loved to spoon, and played bassoon, which sent him over the moon;
Like him, she hated red (maroon), and liked his favourite tunes.
But her request to be a bride was, frankly, much too soon,
So with a hug, he gave her a bug to which she was not immune.

The second girl, he found her quick; 'twas but a short delay;
She worked down at the cabaret, and took his breath away.
She baked soufflé, made cream parfait, and tea from small sachets;
I'd say their play was more risqué than Fifty Shades of Grey.
But to his dismay, she'd never obey a thing he'd try to convey,
So at the last hour, he gave her a flower, and shipped her on her way.

The last and final one he met, she gave him such a great thrill,
When he tells the story, he'd say his jaw was agape, still.
Her tights are worn see-through and lace, and always with those shaped-frills;
She joins him in the shower, and shares his love for escape drills.
The Monthly Man is now in love, and vows steadfast that he'll
Always and forevermore be the fool of April.