by Anton Wills-Eve

<a href=””>Fork</a&gt;

for those who have eyes’ let them hear!


it was all alone when there it lay,

unremarked by all and sundry on a lovely sunny day.

just a picnic fork on a plastic tray.

cast aside, nonchalantly I suppose,

by a greedy, sated, bloated nobleman one of those

rich wayside revellers who chose

to quaff Champagne, kept cold on ice

by his ageing, faithful, travelling butler, on whose advice

they had already met there to dally; twice.

she, versed in the art of coquetry not amour,

and hoping to seduce him, through her fake passion once more

and so gain his wealth by pretending to adore

his bold masculine charm, his figure and his face

lauding his charismatic, haunting looks and aristocratic grace.

why else would they keep a tryst in such a place?

poor lass, his secret was well hidden from her mind

she had no idea he was a vile philanderer, a Don Juan so unkind

who wished only to enjoy ravishing his new ‘find’.

like the fork in the road, though without any tray,

on the grass verge, by a little copse, they most immoderately lay

he taking his pleasure ; she hoping ultimately he’d pay

for the rest of her days, and for all that she might need

while he never even thought, perhaps he might plant a seed

that would flourish soon in her and not satisfy her greed.

thus the harsh moral of my story, it is amoral after all,

is never picnic by a road, with a butler watching, or you’ll fall

for a vile lecher who will leave you with what you call

its father, when he reduces you to total destitution

unable to afford a fork to perform on him the type of execution,

 you daily contemplate in your sad state of prostitution.