Cupid was a porcupine,
A prickly, tickly porcupine.
Now, don’t you think that’s stupid—
A porcupine named Cupid?!
His friends thought it was stupid too,
And picked on him the whole year through...
But Cupid, feigning boredom,
Totally ignored ’em.
Yes, Cupid was a porcupine;
But Cupid had no Valentine.
He asked a tree, “Will you be mine?”
But all the tree could do was pine.
He asked it of a cute pin cushion,
A prickly, thickly, stick-in, push-in;
But the cushion said, “Tough luck.”
And left poor Cupid stuck.
But then he spied his dream divine:
Another prickly porcupine,
Named Wilhelmina Esquiline—
To her, he quickly took a shine.
He combed his ill-kempt set of quills;
He honed his quill-propelling skills
And hoped by this to thus entwine
“My heart with hers, and hers with mine...”
Cupid watched her from a distance;
With pin-point patience and persistence
He aimed a quill of his
And shot at will—that is,
At Wilhelmina Esquiline...
So she became his Valentine.
And so he proved it’s not so stupid
To be a porcupine named Cupid.
—Anon B. Mine