Six mirthful maidens, making merry,
Adorned in outré millinery,
One wearing L-plates (temporary,
It must be said),
They’ve necked three litres of sweet sherry:
Chantelle’s to wed.
Chantelle, completely off her face,
Is weeping in her friends’ embrace,
Her swain’s a total waste of space
(she sobs), a ned.
He sees a skirt, he’s off in chase –
Would she were dead!
Her friends protest: the youth’s a prince,
No love more true, before or since.
Chantelle wails that they’re talking mince
Which hurts her head.
She then throws up, thus to evince
Her nuptial dread.
Her sisters do not hesitate:
They place her in a cab: “Cheers, mate.
Us too? As if? Buff blokes don’t wait!”
With that, they’ve fled.
For maids must always celebrate
When one’s to wed.
Olga Wojtas is a journalist by day and creative writer by night. Her work has appeared in a wide range of publications, including New Writing Scotland, Gutter, and The Mayo Review.