Their eyes met across the roses, Ethel could not believe it.
She, a dinner lady, in the garden of Buckingham Palace.
He could believe it. He, a Count from the House of Lords,
in his element.
He wandered round the circumference of the flower bed,
“Hello,” he purred, “you are A1, A plus.”
“Can I have your number”?
Ethel was thinking the situation did not add up.
The Count saw the doubt in her eyes.
He was not used to a negative reaction.
“You can count on me” he said laughing at his own joke.
Multiple times he had used this chat up line.
nine times out of ten it was successful.
But Ethel was a wary old soul,
and whilst fantasising about using the Count’s body as an abacus,
she believed, in this case,
two plus two might well equal five.
And anyway, he must be 5 plus three score and 10.
She was a sprightly six times eleven.
She did not wish to be mean but age was a factor.
He pointed his digit at her but before he could say a fraction of what he wanted to say
Numero one, the King approached.
“Up to your old tricks, Count,” he said with an obtuse wink
“Well Charlie me old mate
You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?
One was not enough for you, was it?”
“Be careful what you say, Count
or else you will find yourself minus a head.”
“Oh, sire forgive me for overstepping the norm
and in addition, I am 110% behind you.”
Ethel made her exit figuring this was the best way to square the circle.
On average she felt much more in control when confronted by a butterscotch tart.
Malcolm Henshall 2024
From the National Poetry Day 2024 collection