Pretty Boy Simon C. Larter lost again, and so I demanded that he write me a sonnet. It took him, like, minutes. If I had known how deft he was at verse, I would have made him do something a million times more difficult. Dagnabbit, but I’m soft.
Without further ado, I give you The Magnificence of Mercedes: The Sonnet!
The crimson lips, the smoky eyes, the hair
as black as night, the flow’r, the smile distract–
one sees nought but the lady’s face, so fair;
but beauty hides a core of steel, in fact.
Sky-high stilettos… she–a femme fatale?–
exudes a sharp-edged charm, enticing danger.
With words (her weapons) she will hold in thrall
the unexpecting, the unwary stranger.
She will not lose a competition, no–
she’ll crack the gates of hell to find a way
to win, and in her victory, we know
that we who lose shall now have hell to pay.
What say I of this vixen, in the end?
A lovely mother, soulful writer, friend.