Of letting the perfect be the enemy of the good!
The fantasized, impossible perfect, that is…
Each letter drenched in soggy menstruation soup,
The waft transversing centuries…
But her readers tend to taste quite good!
Probably due to their blood-pink romanticism,
Causing constant douching and tending,
Since ‘You never know,
Mr. Darcy may walk in at any moment!’
So if you like fresh, well-tended cunt,
Read some of her ouvre, why don’t you,
It will help you catch,
Some said snatch.