Once a dashing young Lad,
Poor Ren did drink a tad,
Yet,
One night while sitting on a bench,
He gropped what he thought a sassy young wench,
And,
In his amour,
He did not see her,
Holding a menacing face,
As she rose and scooped him in a forceful embrace,
That grin never slipping from her face,
With a deft spin,
Still holding that grin,
His sqirming body was flung in the space,
Poor Ren,
Landing with a thud
In the mud,
Of the weed ridden trench,
With his gasp of last breath,
He questioned Death,
Why, oh why, I am but only French?
♡♡We'll need a big rock, my epitath turned into a poem...