She paced around the darkened room,
Her lovely face drained white.
Her thoughts obsessed with what did loom,
That cold and daunting night.
The candles danced and flickered low,
The dinner plates were set.
Her golden hair donned with a bow,
The stew not ready yet.
She painted pink her cheeks with blush,
She brushed blue ’round her eyes.
Pulled on her skirt without a rush,
Then heard the doorbell’s cries.
Her nerves were gone, replaced with joy,
She trotted to the door.
“Hello, good sir!” she told the boy,
And smiled at him once more.
The fellow said, “How glad I am,
You’re giving me this chance!
You having me for dinner, ma’am,
Is true first-date romance.”
“I thought so too,” she smiled and said,
Hanging up his coat.
He kissed her cheek and she blushed red
And told him not to dote.
He sat down in the dining room,
While she went to the pot.
She stirred the stew and pretty soon,
It boiled nice and hot.
“You’re quite the chef,” he said and smelled.
She turned to look at he.
And then with shock, he saw she held
A knife as large as three.
“What’s that for?” he asked with fear,
Her eyes a twinkling red.
“I’m having you for dinner, dear.
Is that not what I said?”
“I’ve had before a rabbit soup.”
She clenched, unclenched her hand.
“As well as one of duck and goose,
But never one of man.”
He shouted out and stood up quick,
To stop her in her path.
But late he was, and with a flick,
She made a hot blood bath.
The crimson ran onto her dress,
And sullied up the floor.
She giggled down at all the mess
She must, for now, ignore.
“This boyfriend soup will not be bland,
Once I mince this meat.”
She licked her lips and wiped her hands,
And made her tasty treat.