(In the days before the meeting with Anna and Her Royal Highness, Genevieve could be seen scribbling furiously in various rooms of the chateau. Below is a piece of crumpled paper recovered from a vase in the front parlor.)
To my Lady Scientist with roughen’d hands,
thy visage will be missed like spring rains to parched lands.
Your lips like sun-kiss’d rubies; my own remain bereft.
Remembering the softness of your beauty and the sweetness of your cleft.
MERDE. Andre always made zis poetry thing look so easy!