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Madeira M'Dear

Content Advisory: Sexual assault.

Flanders: I would like to sing for you now a little Edwardian (or Edwaudian) song. Give me a chance to wear my present, my little Edwardian hat (or haut).
  Last year I was given a decanter for my birthday - beautiful thing, cut-glass, came from Portobello Rd - in which I keep Madeira, the wine of which I am extremely fond. Not to excess, of course.
  That decanter and this hat gave us the idea for this little Edwardian song.
   
  She was young, she was pure, she was new, she was nice,
  She was fair, she was sweet seventeen.
  He was old, he was vile, and no stranger to vice,
  He was base, he was bad, he was mean.
   
  He had slyly inveigled her up to his flat,
  To view his collection of stamps.
  And he said as he hastened to put out the cat,
  The wine, his cigar and the lamps:
   
  "Have some Madeira, m'dear,
  You really have nothing to fear.
  I'm not trying to tempt you, that wouldn't be right,
  You shouldn't drink spirits at this time of night."
   
  "Have some Madeira, m'dear,
  It's a-very much nicer than beer.
  I don't care for sherry, one cannot drink stout,
  And port is a wine I can well do without,
  It's simply a case of 'chacun à son goût',
  Have some Madeira, m'dear!"
   
  Unaware of the wiles of the snake in the grass,
  Of the fate of the maiden who topes.
  She lowered her standards by raising her glass,
  Her courage, her eyes, and his hopes.
   
  She sipped it, she drank it, she drained it, she did,
  He quietly refilled it again.
  And he said as he secretly carved one more notch,
  On the butt of his gold-handled cane:
   
  "Have some Madeira, m'dear,
  I've got a small cask of it here.
  And once it's been opened, you know it won't keep,
  Do finish it up, it will help you to sleep."
   
  "Have some Madeira, m'dear,
  It's a-really an excellent year.
  Now, if it were gin, you'd be wrong to say 'yes',
  The evil gin does would be hard to assess,
  (Besides, it's inclined to affect me prowess),
  Have some Madeira, m'dear!"
   
  Then there flashed through her mind what her mother had said,
  With her antepenultimate breath:
  "Oh my child, should you look on the wine that is red,
  Be prepared for a fate worse than death!"
   
  She let go her glass with a shrill little cry,
Swann: (Ow)
Flanders: Crash! Tinkle! It fell to the floor.
  When he asked, "What in heaven?", she made no reply,
  Up her mind, and a dash for the door.
   
  "Have some Madeira, m'dear...",
  Rang out down the street, loud and clear.
  A tremulous cry that was filled with despair,
  As she paused to take breath in the cool midnight air.
   
  "Have some Madeira, m'dear...",
  The words seemed to ring in her ear.
   
  Until the next morning, she woke up in bed,
  With a smile on her lips, and an ache in her head...
   
  And a beard in her earhole that tickled and said:
  "Have some Madeira, m'dear! Ha ha ha..."