Topic: Forum Games /
[Game over] CURSIVE - And the winner is...
At the Matchmakers’
I chanced upon a match factory,
It was a blustery summers day;
A small signboard led the way.
The big door was old and worn,
Undoubtedly made of wood;
And so firmly there it stood.
Poked my head in I did,
And shocked by what I saw;
The Master gestured ‘fifty quid’,
But I just stood there in awe.
Those I saw bedazzled me,
Of beauty unannounced;
Radiant as I could see,
But not all of it counts.
Of the twenty-something matches that were there,
Nestled in the cornerside, she sat down alone,
Wrapped in a loud ruby red with needles in her hair,
Resting on mahogany, deep in thoughts unknown,
The matchstick in the corner, to whom I could not compare.
Her thin lips smiled so sweet,
As graceful as her air,
And as her pretty, supple feet;
None of the matches who were there,
Really could compete.
I gestured back at Master,
I said that she’s the one,
“I’m certain, more than ever,”
And just when it was done,
He then called out to get ’er.
Sweating out of my two palms,
Standing there alone,
I thought I would have had no qualms,
With the mistress of my own.
But as she came here in the light,
I certainly could see,
That she was truly hideous, as ugly as can be.