Since I wasn't hip to
PerPoTues when the Epic poem was assigned, I thought I'd give it my best shot. And it turns out, my best shot isn't really an Epic at all -- just a tale about a harrowing and dangerous adventure: the shaving of legs in the winter. Egad.
Here now, is my Epic. Heavenly style. Good luck to you all.
Listen, ye friends, to the tale
Of the lazy lady in winter.
Of how her excuses grew frail,
when her legs could give off a splinter.
An average lady she was,
Neither terribly dull nor fancy.
But the one area that could give pause,
Was the state of her legs a-prancing.
She'd neglected to shave her lovely limbs
For too many cold winter mornings.
And when the prickles were noticed by him,
Her husband began with the scorning.
Said he:
My lady, My love, My Heavenly girl,
I don't believe I can bear it!
Where once as perfect and smooth as a pearl,
Your legs have grown rough like a ferret!
Please, my darling, please!
You must now tame this thicket!
Here, I've gathered your things:
See?! Your razor, your loofah, your spigot.
Said she:
Goodness, My love, My handsome one,
How have I come to this place?
With terrible speed will I hastily run
To remedy my winter-time laze.
So she uncurled herself from her blankets,
realizing her husband was right.
Her legs gave off sparks like a musket,
Electric static brightened the night.
Upon hopping into the shower,
She quickly became quite stumped.
For there, causing her to cower,
Were a million teensy goosebumps.
She gasped! She sobbed! She whimpered!
She couldn't begin this endeavor!
For, to shave on top of the goose-pimples
Would leave a burning disaster!
Her nimble mind raced, her heartbeat quickened,
she glanced wildly at the door.
But during her pause the soap had thickened,
and she nearly fell to the floor.
"Honey?" she heard down the hall,
"Is everything coming along smoothly?"
"Yes!" she replied, mid-sprawl,
Thinking:
I may need your muscle to move me. Warmed by the near-embarrassment
She resolved to endure the plague.
The blade left a path, like an astringent,
burning her shivering legs.
Is this what it takes? she wondered.
Is this really the thing to be done?She didn't want to make a blunder,
But almost couldn't bear to go on.
She dug down deep in her coffers;
Her leg hair
needed to be shorn.
And eventually she finished, but butchered;
Her poor legs were tortured and torn.
The bathroom air felt Nova Scotian --
she took a moment to regain her composure --
then slathered on a layer of lotion
hoping to assuage the pain with moisture.
Once re-heated by warm woolen clothing,
She managed to ward off the shivers.
Pride had replaced her shave-loathing,
Her curiosity poured forth like a river.
Slowly up-rolling her pant leg,
This newly shaved lady was ready.
Would her skin be as smooth as a goose egg?
Could the pain be redeemed by the shedding?
Before her very eyes she watched
As a bare leg became exposed,
Each pore opened up -- debauched --
And new hairs immediately did grow.
"NO!" she shouted, defeated.
"All my efforts are lost!
If by this frozen air I am greeted,
My follicles will remain star-crossed!"
She doubled up on her resolve
to outlast this wretched cold weather.
Her husband's ideas must simply evolve;
Even if he must cover his own legs in leather.
And so my dear friends, remember
the tale of the wintertime woman:
Her courage, her bravery, her valor,
Her wisdom -- and how it was proven.
For after trying to soften her legs,
She instead made a gentler choice:
To bundle up until winter reneges.
To become hair-free in spring,
then rejoice.
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