Please be mine romantic, kind sir
We may move into my quarters, but you must bring the whole roasted ham along with you, as I will require constant nourishment during our foray. As I slip off my royal garb, I will require you to plop bon bons down my throat in a teasing and tempting fashion. I want you to giggle girlishly as you carve the turkey I keep under my regal bed quilts. When I devour the cranberry sauce I keep by mine bedside table, it is my hope you will slap yourself silly with tiny yellow gloves.
Finally, the lovemaking. My butler will be dropping ranch dipped grilled cheese sandwhich halves into my wanton mouth as you plunge into my open fields, and the crumbs may shower your countenance. Just laugh this off as if it were nothing, and bang your knees together as if you must applaud the symphony upsidedown. The geese shall be lead through my quaters at this moment and, under God's good graces, will hop upon the bed and saunter across your slickened backside. If they peck, briefly laugh. If they quack, nod and blow a kiss.
When the act is complete, prepare a bath. Fill it with melted butter and parsley and wipe the sweat from your brow -- that belongs in the pantry, not my drawn bath. When I slip in, sing a song.
Sing until I pass out. Remind my butler to give you a fashionable gown. Leave and never return ... never return ...