[Another original Pearce & Story short:]Have I told you what happened along Coventry Way,
To Sir Mortimer Finch… just yesterday?
You will find it amusing, of this I’ve no doubt,
When you hear of the folly down on Coventry route.
This is the lane -- and I’m sure that you know --
Where fair Abigail Swineheart attracts many a beau.
Hundreds of courters from towns far and near,
Come and woo while she strolls and lends them an ear.
One such suitor was Mort, but he wasn’t too brave,
He merely hid in the Widow Prune’s garden and waved.
No swashbuckler he, no not our poor Morty,
For you see on his chin, Sir Finch was quite warty.
Yes, a whale of a wart hung from Mortimer’s chin,
Enough wart, in fact, for at least fifty men.
Gray and bulbous, the cauliflower monstrosity sagged,
Were Mort an inch shorter, ‘cross the ground would it drag.
Yet life’s cruel burden hadn’t dulled Cupid’s dart,
And Finch sighed, for he loved Miss Abby Swineheart.
“Oh, what shall I do?” he groaned with a whine,
“If not for this wart, I just know I could shine.
“But ugly like this, I can’t compete with her mob.”
Thus, he moped as he plucked at his thing-a-ma-bob.
Just then, coming by, who should hear Morty’s plight,
But Dr. McGroo who swore, “By gum, that’s not right!
“I’ve got the treatment that thing will require,”
And he reached for a needle two feet tall -– maybe higher.
Doc stabbed the point into Mort’s chinny fungus,
But rather than shrink that wart grew more humongous.
Across the lawn, it now snaked through bushes and fescue,
And wound onto the pole at the Fire & Rescue,
Here Fireman Joe Blighton jumped up with a start,
Snapped his suspenders and wrangled that wart.
He attached the great growth to the old hook and ladder,
While back at the Widow’s, Finch only grew sadder.
Indeed, and more wretched, as the fire engine blared,
And stretched the wart ‘round about Coventry Square.
Then Joe screeched to a stop and scratched his bald head,
“This isn’t working… we need something instead.”
“Why, of course!” claimed Tom Trawley, from his porch in the shade,
“I’ve got just the tool. I’m a welder, by trade.”
Dodging McGroo’s monster, Tom jumped off his porch,
Ran into his barn, and returned with a torch.
Finch spied Trawley’s flame-thrower and his fears grew and grew,
So, he gathered himself to escape from the crew.
But the weight of his blemish anchored him down,
So he spun, flopped, and cartwheeled, and plunged to the ground.
The welder then pulled his mask over his face,
And aimed blue-tipped fire to lay wart to waste.
Mort screamed, “Do your worst. I love Abby, you see,
No pain is too much, if it means she’d want me.”
The sweet Missus Swineheart heard Mort’s piercing yelp,
So, she bustled right over to see how she could help.
Doc McGroo told the story, and her eyes opened wide,
And Coventry’s beauty swayed down to Mort’s side.
She scolded, “Mortimer Finch, have you been through all this?
If you truly do love me, seal the deal with a kiss.”
“Dear Abby,” said Morty as he lay there prostrate,
“Does this mean you’d accompany me on a date?”
“Sir Finch, if for me you endured all this strife,
I’d even consider becoming your wife.”
She inclined to him slowly, kissed his cheek sweet and soft,
And that wart of all warts on Mort’s chin fell right off.
Writing
