Barrow Fields i would ask, almost insist, on treating you kind and fair

he couldn't believe it -- his ramshackle, cobbled-together sonnet had worked. and while it was true to the last refrain, he had not expected such a turnaround in the waif -- perhaps his benevolence had finally eeked through to her narrow skull and implied some small fragment of benefice.

he didn't waste time then, heeding to her every command -- and as she fell back in the manner of a victorian wench he practically swept down upon her, his tail thrumming happily in the dirt and his muzzle split wide in a black-gummed grin. he was not the best of bards, but his crooning voice had secured her -- eureka! gods be good, he would soon have the spitfire woman as his bona-fide paramour.