Lulu’s Lament
AKA: She used to be Pretty…
She used to be pretty…for a rat. Her whiskers were the talk of the town — long, slender and sharp.
She used to be pretty for a rat, with a pink grosgrain ribbon at the base of her tail, tied into a neat bow.
She used to be pretty for a rat — at least her feet were dainty and she would trim her nails.
She used to be pretty for a rat, when she kept her teeth up. In fact, she rather fancied the hygienist.
She used to be pretty for a rat, brushing her fur 100 strokes of a night, and, we hear tell, using rosemary oil for that extra shine.
She used to be pretty for a rat, wore the daintiest frocks, never missed a party, and on the dance floor, was an easy lead.
Too easy, they said. She had a reputation, they said.
Shocking! Said the girls. Intriguing…said the guys.
Still, they all had to admit her beauty stopped them in their tracks.
She was, in a word, mesmerizing…her smile, dazzling, her dainty feet, breathtaking. She was all comely charm, belle of the ball, the Scarlett O’Hara of the Rodent Regalia.
Too bad, they said.
What a damn shame they tsk-tsked.
