Blame it on Hydra

It was a memorable evening, bright with my beautiful, charming fiancé (once my wretched, tormented heart's delight) near the old village of Fatheringay. Drawn by the lilt of a whispery voice, we found ourselves in a dark, rustic pub. An inner misgiving questioned our choice. A man served drinks from a hook on a stub.   After imbibing a strange, bubbling brew, we dawdled the full moon-lit countryside. In the lunar light, her eyes shone light blue - mine, a phosphorus glow, like Mr. Hyde. We gazed at the Hydra constellation, where the Ghost of Jupiter nebula somehow unfastened my reservation, as its image fell on my retina.   That my grandfather was a lycanthrope, and a mad cascade of serpentine thoughts, this myriad of disclosures doused hope (a demented disconnection of dots). The vile dreams would slither back to their hole too late for my near bride of eighteen. The strong brew's effects had taken their toll. My love was never again to be seen.   No, my true love was no more to be seen.