The Perfect Persimmon

 

 

I once met a pert and persnickety person

   Perversely pursuing the perfect persimmon:

From Perth up to Persia, Peru and then Pershing,

   Sir Percival Perkins loved ‘pers’ more than women.

 

Perhaps he, my perfuse persimmons, will purchase!

   (I perched on my pearly-white pergola gate.)

But perfidious Percy purloined them—on purpose!

   Perniciously—all!—non permissionly—ate!

 

“What percentage,  pursuant to my peradventure,”

   He perpended, it seemed, most percipiently,

“Would pertain to this permanent ‘perfect per’-clencher

   If no ‘perfect per’ perquisites thus fell to me?”

 

Perplexed and perturbed by this perky persona,

   I trolled for perspective, some pertinent clue.

So Percy pursed up his lips like a piranha,

   Turned purple, perspired, and purported his view:

 

“My name is Sir Percival Perseus Perkins;

   My purpose, to purloin the perfect persimmon;

Whose perfume’s persuasive—like feminine persons,

   But sweeter, pervasive—more…perfect than women!”

 

“Your percept of Persia is purblind, Sir Percy,”

   (I purr to persuade him) “Now Persia’s Iran.

Your purview perpetuates this controversy;

   Purveys you as quite an impertinent man!”

 

“Peremptory perjury!” percolates Percy,

   “Percentiles of perverts all persecute me;

Persevere per—per diem!—permit me no mercy!

   Let them purge all perdition!—they won’t permute me!”

 

 Perforce struck his final perfervid percussion,

   Permeating my pervious periphery;

My perception lay perforate per the concussion!

   “—And you may take my persiflage personally!”

 

I let Percy persist in his perambulations,

   Perchance to perceive his most perfect persimmon;

Perusing the purlieus of all persian nations.

   Sir Percival Perkins loves ‘pers’ more than women.