Besotted

Editor's caution: This fresh zinger from Nan's bawdy quill may pierce you right in your office party regrets.

There once was a divorcee - recently made
Whose looks, alas, had started to fade.
Counting her wrinkles she began to cry.
(Her sorrows abated with some gin and rye.)

She perched on a bar stool and hoisted her chest.
Fresh lipsticked and half drunk, she gave it her best.
She morphed into babe-dom, on that very night:
The more the men drank, the more she looked right.

Then droopy-eyed swaggarts began to spew rage,
And those gin-mill familiars, they took center stage.
"She's mine!" "No, she's mine!" the lugs started to shout.
Fists pumped the air; it was time to get out.

She fumbled her car keys, she let out a groan.
A knight came to her aid and took her straight home.
A fairy tale dream danced that night in her head
But come the next morn, her ex snored from her bed.