LucienLaCwocky

T'was sundown, and the Ravenettes
Were to-and-frugging in the yard.
The sneakling Cousins all took bets
That the FoDlettes died-hard.

"Beware Lucien LaCrois, mon cher,
The cunning plots, the words that hurt.
Beware him, though he's notre pere,
Like the Ripper's blood-spurt!"

He took his sharpened stake in hand,
Long time his sanguine foe he sought,
He drove his car to the Raven-bar
And sat awhile, in thought.

And as in brickish thought he sat,
Lucien LaCroix, his eyes a-flame,
Smiled toothily, like the Cheshire Cat,
A-cursing as he came.

Oh, no! Oh, no! You so-and-so!
The sharpened stake sliced, as he'd feared!
Right through the wall, but, after all,
His foe had . . . disappeared!

"You think you've slain Lucien LaCroix?
Nicola, cher; are you for real?
O, zut alors! Combatte de hors!"
She tried to cop a feel.

T'was sundown, and the Ravenettes
Were to-and-frugging in the yard.
The sneakling Cousins all took bets
That the FoDlettes died-hard.

Or feel a cop?

(I have no idea what "combatte de hors" means, except I think I once saw = it somewhere, and it kind of fits.)

A More Permanent Atch-Ee-Double Hockey Sticks

There once was a young girl named Divia,
Whose manner could make your skin shivia.
Then, one volcanic night,
She gave daddy a bite,
And now they're both very long-livia.

How the West Wasn't Won
or
"I'm sorry, could you explain that 'Code' thing to me again?"

There once was a Cowboy rode outa the West,
With a steely glint in his eye.
He slept through the day, 'cos the nighttime was best,
'Sides, if the sun hit him, he'd fry.

Pursued by another (who once was a brother),
He soujourned the day in a cave.
When his new-found friend killed him, the drug only chilled him,
Then the Preacherman chomped on the knave.

Later that night when they flew into town,
(After eatin' the Cowboy's horse)
The Gal showed the Cowboy her new red silk gown,
Whilst ignorin' the Cowboy's remorse.

Then the Preacher pulled out the Wanted handbill
And the smile died on her sweet lips,
She knew who that night she was goin' to kill:
The artist. He'd die slow, from sips.

So that is the end of my story
'Bout the Preacher, the Cowboy, the Gal.
The moral is sad and it's sorry:
Ya cain't never trust an old pal.

(and that moral makes about as much (non) sense as the actual & confused moral of the episode, The Code.) Thanks to all who gave me the horse picnic and Janette ideas on the Spoiler List, the above is your fault, too.