She shrieked, in a manner most unmild,
“Oh, goodness gracious, I’m with child!”
She had been “stepping out” with Wadford Weasel,
He’d take his canvas and his easel.
And his paint set, artist's palette,
“I should have also brought my valet,”
“And a connoisseur’s selection, a hamper lunch,”
“But three’s a crowd, a too big brunch.”
“Intimate with Audrey, I want to be,”
“So, for eating, we’ll wait for tea.”

The day did pass, not much painting done,
But, they both agreed, it was fun,
They eventually did return for tea,
Coyly smiling, for all to see.

Fast forward now, a month or three,
Brings things to that point of discovery.
Would Audrey’s tot have consanguineous connection?
To Wadford Weasel, and his convection?
Six more months, her confinement began,
Why “confinement”? She neither walked nor ran.
At last, the day her offspring was born.
A joyous occasion, nothing forlorn.
She’d call him (for it was, indeed, a boy)
Her “little treasure”, her pride and joy!
Would Wadford Weasel come to visit?
Would he declare the child exquisite!
Only the passage of time would tell.
Meantime, could that new born yell!

Finally Weasel did turn up,
Joy turning to a bitter cup.
“Now that I have a son, an heir!”
“Come again, painting with me, so we’ll have a spare!”