The Plumber's Tale of a Merry Widow

The Plumber’s Tale of a “Merry Widow” Retold

As I went to work one day,
A tale I heard I’d like to say.
As I was walking down the street,
A jolly plumber I did meet.

Into the subway both we stepped,
A dark tunnel where the drunken slept.
Onto the same train both we strode,
And in the same car both we rode.

The car was crowded twelve times three,
And the plumber bounced down next to me.
His shoed were muddied with a sickly grime,
His rank aroma mixed with mine.

His face was rosy, red, and plump,
With rotund belly and crippling hump.
His face was blotched and bumped with hive,
When last he’d washed I could not derive.

His shirt was wrinkled, ruff and crude,
As from his mouth came a sound most rude.
His pants were green with patches plenty,
The hair on his head were a hundred and twenty.

His T-shirt read “I Love New York”,
And in his teeth he chewed a cork.
The corner of his mouth dribbled with slime,
And as he spoke his hands would mime.

He told me of his late encounter,
Of how she pleaded him to mount her.
The maiden, fair widow, sweet,
With a fulsome kiss his bell did greet.

She grabbed his arm and weeping told,
How her kitchen faucet ran but cold.
With “tinkling” voice he soothed her frown,
And by the sink his tools set down.

As he turned on the sink to check and see,
The buxom widow offered tea.
As he tried to do the sink repair,
The widow gave the man a stare.

When next he turned to take a tool,
The widow sat naked on a stool.
His eye with passion laid their glare,
On the rosy breasts she had laid bare.

Then in a moment his mind enthralled,
He turned his back, his place recalled.
He begged her then her clothes return,
His heart rebelled, but his voice was stern.

Then round his waist her arms did slip,
As she nibbled his ear with fulsome lip.
And in that moment, he lost control,
As blazing passion won the poll.

Then to the bedroom off they went,
His tools he’d use and then repent.
Well as they played upon the bed,
He found her husband was not dead.

The crafty woman, for so she was,
Often made a cuckold of her “hus”,
Her only desire men to bed,
It was for money this man she’d wed.

But to give up lust for money she,
Could not do for as you see,
A nymphomaniac sure she was,
And she must have men as a nympho does.

Her husband knew not of this sickness,
Cried out then “As God is my witness!”
“Oh dearest one for love I wed.”
“I’ll drive this rapist from they bed!”

Because this man by love was binded,
It seems his heart had also blinded.
For this poor man it’s sad to say,
Could see no wrong in his wife that day.

He pulled himself to his fullest height,
And drove the plumber from his sight.
And so the plumber ended his tale,
As to his stop the train did wail.

But as he left I could clearly see,
That the plumber told not the truth to me.
But still to truth I must take pain,
To say I enjoyed the plumber’s hot refrain.

As he left the subway quick I thought,
A book by it’s cover he was not.
For beneath that ugly bloated plain,
There was a warped but healthy brain.

And so his tale I did applaud,
Although I knew it for a fraud.


(I wrote this poem in high school, it is based on the works of Chauser. It follows his style both in form and content. The instructor allowed me to follow the content part provided I was willing to stand up in front of class and read it, which I did.)