In old Politarchopolis, one night in every year,
The Scarlet Women gather for a feast
To honour saintly Valentine, who all of them hold dear,
They gather, several dozen at the least.

But once a certain royal pair, whose names I shan’t reveal
Arrived, in all their splendour, on the night,
And danced a bit and held a court and shared the splendid meal
And had some fun, as surely was their right.

And when the Prince and Princess X (disguised by pseudonyms)
Had finished all the business of the court
They spent a fair amount of time describing all their whims
The very clear and single-minded sort.

The Lady asked for any men to come before the throne
Whose tights were tight, and tunics nice and short.
The Lord requested bodices without delay be shown,
But only those providing scant support.

The Lady asked for brazen men with codpiece overstuffed;
The Lord requested cleavage, bold and sweet.
And Scarlet Women, said the Prince, would never be rebuffed;
And Scarlet Men the Princess yearned to meet.

So through a night of lemons cloved and hankies dropped at will,
The Royal couple had their whims achieved,
And set a standard hard to top, with rare and practiced skill,
And spent a night that scarce can be believed.