while she pondered so weak and weary,
having lost yet again to America’s best,
for the 13th time having failed the test,
there came a rapping
as if one tapping,
tapping at her chamber door.
Probably reporters wanting details of the gore,
yeah, likely that and nothing more.
But then a familiar voice piped, “Won’t you open the door?
I wish only to talk and nothing more.
Let’s speak of tennis, I just love the game.
It’s brought to us both great wealth and fame.”
“No she shrieked, I’ll not open this door
for I fear you’ll surely want to hurt me more!
At times it’s terrible, a crying shame
that you begrudge me winning a single game.”
“Yes,” came the reply, “but for me it’s a bitch,
like trying to quell an insatiable itch.”
“Please go away, won’t you just leave
so that I might in peace be allowed to grieve?”
“Oh come now good foe, it can’t be that bad,
surely you don’t feel so totally sad?”
Trembling she replied, “Yes I do, now please go away
so that I can brood alone for the rest of this day.”
Suddenly she awoke with a shriek and a scream
only to find, it was all but a dream.
Mopping her brow, she stared at the door,
It was “SITS,” a nightmare and nothing more.