A harem for the King’s hearty vigor
was kept cloistered in his Versailles villa,
each woman tempting with a curvy figure,
their breasts and thighs white like vanilla.
Yet dissuaded was a lad’s lust to leap
as the servants brought thither food and wines,
for those women were the King’s to keep
and wore wigs to cover scarred hairlines.
Pockmarks fringed each merkin weave
and perfume covered the wanton stench—
Love, long ago, was a thing to grieve
if enjoined with a syphilitic siren wench.
Now see the King— goiter, caruncle, crown—
flanked by cankerous cherubim floating aloft,
and strutting, as a turkey, bald to his down
when his powdered wig was, in private, doffed.
Turkey and King thus unified, it is not a wonder
that Benjamin Franklin regarded fancy France
as the greatest of all countries, a telltale blunder
which invited the pox into his loose-buckled pants.
The “French Crown” spread across the globe,
as coins do, from purse to opening purse,
and with it, too, the manias of Love—each dropping robe
crowning men and women with a meteoric curse.