A/N: I have very little clue where this came from. I was (perhaps obviously) bored.

To: a venerable gentleman
Who is shall we say, "past his prime"
And whom we shall conveniently name Mr. Cabot.

Dear Mr. Cabot,
As the lady of the house (and as my husband
Is rather busy, folding notes), it has fallen
Upon me to inform you that my spouse,
My children, and I
Will be unable to attend your luncheon
This Thursday next; and for fear
Of appearing aloof and cold, I shall here
Disclose our reasons why:

Firstly, allow me to say
That I would not again have lunch in your garden
Even to break bread with Bacchus himself,
Not because they are unstately, but
Because they are the favorite corral
Of two of your garden maids, who take
Every opportune moment
To roleplay as Artemis and one of her
Dulcet huntresses.
As you can imagine,
This is no sight to be borne
Whilst eating.

Secondly, I will here confess to you
My suspicion that one of your cooks
(Richard, perhaps, with the harelip)
Has been poisoning my food, for every
Evening I leave one of your gatherings, my tender bowels
Twitch spasmodically, and I find
That I must spend the night in the den (reading)
So as to alleviate my husband of my
Rather embarrassing and pungent-smelling
Bodily functions.

Thirdly, I feel an impending obligation
To inform you that your manor, while stately,
Is less than one could expect; your
Carpets do not match your drapes and
The statues kept around your rooms may
Be Greco-Roman, but
Are painted hideously, like
Soft-fleshed, nubile young
Boy-whores, and
I hope to god that you didn't seriously pay
Someone to do your parlour, as your dithering wife
Proudly claims.

And on that note,
Let me say that she
(Your wedded darling, that is)
Is perfect--- nay, shining example
Of a plump and graying hen
Whose garrulous clucking drives me up the wall.

But none of this, good sir,
Is really your fault.

And to rectify this flawless guise
Allow me to remark that
Despite your success and obvious wealth
You are simple, boorish,
And idiotically fond of children;
Your claims of Roman ancestry are made
Believable by your hands,
Except for your fingers, which appear to me to be

But of al this I shall speak naught
If you consent to not call again.

So, adieu, adieu,
Let it be the last.


A Lady