Little Miss Muffet

It's tough on a tuffet
when you order cream cheese
and the script insists
that you rough it with curds
and whey. You preen
till the day is as dark
as a tired eye, spooning
stuff down your throat
while the light goes out of
your tiny mind. Behave
like a slave, what happens?
Out of the gooseberry bush,
on tiptoe, a brand of blarney
dripping from his chin, comes
Spiderman's assistant.
He is all legs, excepting
the fur tongue he begs you
to wipe with your cheek.
Being young, susceptible,
you suggest he returns
next week, is not your type,
but he won't take Maybe
for answer, and starts dusting
the air with pique. Pique
is as dandruff; it falls
on deaf ears, unwelcome shoulders.
You leave the area,
smartish, riding a red trice.
Did he know you were single?

From Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday