In this land of mystical fairies everyone dances,
Wears minimal clothing and sings Madonna’s
Greatest hits. Sunlight beams between the trees,
Reflecting glittery rainbow condoms scattered
On the grass. Every fairy has long, greasy hair that
Falls (all the freakin’ time) into their “wild” eyes.
They spread their legs and arch their backs
In sensual performance: a magical yoga class
Taking place lakeside in the only clearing
Of the forest. Miles off, you can hear the hooting
And hollering of pompous “knight-at-arms”
Riding on the backs of steeds.
Behind a shrub in this land of mystical fairies
Squats Keats (that pining poet), who
Failed out of Knight School and scratches
(Soaking) wet dreams onto parchment for a living.
He chuckles at every reference to his genitalia,
Which becomes “full sore” when he sees a fairy
Dancing among the roses and the evening dew.
Keats abandons his hiding spot and his trousers tighten
As he reaches out to touch—
Before this porn-de-force goes any further, let’s cut to the chase:
Fairy professes love (a lie) and is deflowered.
Knights warn Keats, Keats doesn’t listen.
Keats kisses Fairy’s eyelids four times,
Hoping that will make her stay (forever).
Fairy doesn’t cook a post-coital breakfast
Of bacon and eggs or praise Keats for
The (underwhelming) roll in the hay.
Their love affair wasn’t any more real than
The virginity Fairy (willingly) abandoned
Or the knights who told Keats to keep it in his pants.
While Keats dabs his eyes with a Kleenex
And curls into the fetal position on a cold, misty hillside,
Some (men) hope that his next dream will yield better results.
But there is satisfaction in knowing (1980s radical feminists rejoice)
That one fairy got out (sans virginité) in time to
Join her sisters in another round of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.