Thanks, Frank.

Due to My Inability to Stop for Death

Owing to the fact that I was unable to stop for Death
Death graciously performed the courtesy of stopping for me;
The vehicle of conveyance Death permitted me to enter
Was limited to Death itself, yours truly, and Immortality.

Dorothy Parker

Males only rarely feel compelled by the hormones produced inside their testicles
To direct their mating rituals and seduction techniques at females who wear spectacles.

Jack Sprat possessed a remarkable antipathy to the consumption of adipose matter,
Refusing even to contemplate the ingestion of any such should it appear on his platter.
But before a menu-related solution be suggested, one must first make reference
To the circumstance that his wife expressed a relevant, albeit divergent, dietary preference.

Mrs Sprat – considerable historical research notwithstanding, her full name is unknown –
Manifested a prandial peculiarity of equal distinction and, even at this vantage, uniquely her own.
She found herself unable and unwilling to introduce lean meat via her mouth to her digestive tract.
Astute logicians will doubtless be able to outline the likely terms of the consequent marital pact.

Essentially, each marital partner, being able to accommodate the foodstuffs inimical to their spouse,
Acted as a mirror or photo-negative of the other, yet collaborating to bring order to the house
Upon those occasions – perhaps during periods of austerity coupled with high price inflation –
When a cleared plate came to symbolise thrift and tenacity in the face of economic privation.

Comprehensively splendid!

A good 'un, Adrian.

I think 'menu-related' needs a hyphen.

Those silly billies, Jack and Jill, went up the fateful hill,
They should've followed water's course and saved themselves a spill.

As Humpty Dumpty climbed the wall from which he came a cropper,
His ignorance of common sense was patently improper.

When asked for wool, the black sheep thought, have you quite lost your mind?
For sheep can't talk, and I've been shorn, you're stupid and you're blind.

Contrary Mary's jealousy of those who owned a garden
Caused her to lie incessantly - she never begged a pardon.


(Hopefully I've captured the required pomposity, not sure about the prolix element.)

Adrian,

Pompousliy prolix and prolixly pompous;
Cleverly worded and metric'ly rompous.

(maybe you might replace "that" in S1, L4 with "whereby", or a similar iambic word ?)

30 Days Hath September
 

A score and ten days constitute September,
As well as with November and with June;
And April has the same, I must remember
(Which doesn’t get me halfway through this tune.)

Now February’s such a special case,
I’ve placed it in the middle of my rime;
A score and eight its designated days
(At least they are, three-quarters of the time.)

But on the other twenty-five percent
Of years, ol’ February takes a leap
Ahead a day; a rather odd event
(To compensate for solar system creep.)

And when that cus-sed February’s done,
October, August, May, July, December,
And March all count their days as thirty-one
(Along with one more month I can’t remember.)

more in my previous post's vein:

Mary had a little lamb she loved in childish fashion,
When winter came, then hunger saw her scoff it with a passion.

As we went round the mulberry bush so early in the morning,
We should have seen insanity, the signs of, come forewarning.

When Gloucester-bound Doc Foster went a-paddling in a puddle,
His patients deemed him past his best, they thought his mind a muddle.

See That Lady, Dressed in Blue?
 

See that lady, dressed in blue?
She’ll go down, but not for you. ( Old US Army cadence call)

Naïve recruit, still green from daddy’s farm,
Direct your eyes a bit to ten o’clock,
Where you may gaze upon the ample charm
Of whore who can arouse a soldier’s cock.
She’s dressed seductively in azure hue,
Her skirt too short, her bra a tad too tight.
Now you may think she has the hots for you
And you’ll be getting laid by her tonight.

In fact, she’ll take on most of your platoon
This weekend after payday has arrived.
But you’re a hopeless stumble-bum buffoon;
So of her services, you’ll be deprived.
Go get yourself a Playboy magazine
And jack off Friday night in the latrine.