As brown-eyed Jonathan sobbed, misty-minded Margaret Wells neared his shop,
Heard his sobbing, and thought, "Lo, is that strong-thewed Jonathan,
The blacksmith, the guy who has a thing for zombie women,
Which is kind of creepy, but maybe it's just a rumor,
Is that him, crying in his shop?" Long-haired Margaret, blonde-haired,
Blonde-haired like the Europeans spoken of before,
Since, coincidentally, as a Londoner,
She was also a European, and thus blonde-skinned and fair-livered,
Or something like that.

Margaret, misty-minded Margaret, she was a woman of no mean means,
Her father had passed, and her mother, and her brother, too,
Who was kind enough to make a fortune and die without an heir,
So she was pretty filthy rich, and boy, did she like it,
And misty-minded though she may be, she was wise sometimes,
Wise enough to see that her inheritance was not infinite,
That her investments, though wise, as wise as grey-eyed Athena,
Not grey-skinned zombies, mind you,
Her investments would not be enough to support her,
And since she still had her youth and her beauty,
Which, compared to the rest of the Londoners, and especially to zombies,
Was pretty impressive,
But then, it's not hard to look good when the competition is a ghoul,
Or has been eaten by a ghoul,
Regardless, she was determined to land herself a husband,
Preferably a rich, handsome husband,
Someone who could support her way of life,
Not that she was shallow, no, she'd marry for love,
Romantic love, platonic love, any kind of love, really,
As long as the guy still had money, piles and piles of money,
Yet the insightful observer will see that she's not marrying for money,
But for a shitload of money.

Jonathan, hammer-swinging Jonathan, he didn't have a shitload of money,
Not even a fuckton of money, but he had enough to get by, and live comfortably,
Which was good enough for him, but Margaret, dear, sweet, gold-digging Margaret,
That wasn't good enough for her, nowhere near, but I'm making her sound bad,
And she wasn't really all that bad, she just knew what she wanted,
And she wanted a rich husband, which Jonathan could never be,
But Jonathan knew people, and those people knew people,
And why would she close off those avenues when she needed to network,
After all, once she was rich, she could dump him like a bad habit,
But he didn't know that, and she didn't bother to tell anyone,
So they were pretty good friends.

Steeling herself to the sight of the stuffed zombie,
To the heirloom zombie on the wall of the smithy,
Which was pretty weird if you asked around, but no one really said too much,
Since William Brewer was a renowned zombie killer,
And it makes good business sense to advertise that in a semi-literate society,
Kind of like hanging out a shingle to advertise a law practice,
And since hanging out a zombie would only invite vandalism,
The heirloom zombie stayed inside, out of sight, out of mind,
Except for the people who entered the smithy,
At which point it became very much in sight, and in mind,
And that started to verge on creepiness.

Steeling herself again, since she did it a moment ago and then did nothing,
She entered the smithy, carefully avoiding the sight of the zombie,
The grey-skinned stuffed zombie, courtesy of the taxidermist on Market Street,
Who was really a nice mensch, he also ran a great deli,
But that's still beside the point,
The point being, Margaret looked away from the zombie,
And looked straight at Jonathan,
Tall, brown-eyed, snot-nosed Jonathan, clad in leather apron,
Hammer in hand,
Soon to be a zombie-smashing hammer, but neither of them knew that,
And Zeus may have known, but he wasn't telling anyone,
Especially not Margaret, who stood before Jonathan, and said,
"So, have you ever killed a zombie in the pale moonlight?"

Jonathan stood speechless.

"I always ask that of all my prospective husbands," misty-minded Margaret said,
Tossing her hair casually, almost flirtatiously,
But certainly not flirtatiously, since Jonathan wasn't rich.