Tonight I have the Count around to dinner;
he’s partial to an after twilight bite.
A saint he ain’t but I prefer a sinner —
I ’m weak and flushed of cheek now he’s in sight.
Blood-red tomato soup’s the way to start —
To end — Veinilla Tarte Au Necktarine.
Decoffinated coffee plays its part —
I knew he’d like my garlic-free cuisine.
“Perhaps you’d deign to dance?” I ask him shyly.
“Yes please!” he moans in tones that make me glow.
We pirouette across the parlour parquet
in a tantalizing, torrid fang-dango!
He cloaks me in his charms — all senses reeling,
my inhibition’s nibbled clean away.
“You’re mad!” I gasp, while floating toward the ceiling.
“Oh, just a little batty, some would say.”
Now quite the vamp and well and truly smitten
I cry out, “Will you love me till I die?”
“Though tasty, you’re too hasty, once I’ve bitten
I can’t deny my instinct’s whim to fly!”
How dare that sucker gorge my fare then leave me!
I’ll not invite the Count again to sup!
A guest who leaves his hostess with a hickey
should stay and do the bloody washing up!