The Troll and the Spinster

One evening an old ailurophile strolled through a forest with her blackest of cats, To brood on her once goldenrod hair and the callipygous bottom on which she once sat. Her head hung low upon shrugged cathartic shoulders, In her crestfallen saunter, she sobbed in fear of aging any older. Passing with desuetude the felicity in each shimmering yet saccharine leaf and lagoon, Her passions for appreciation poured from her pale open mouth, which scowled at the moon. Miserable was this lethargic and elderly ingenue, For beauty no longer sung in her sagging sinew. Then, as the moonlight began to trickle through the canopy, It cast it's light upon a wooden bridge she approached in apathy. It was a crossing over a creek that cricketed and croaked, And from beneath its twelfth slab a repugnant face poked. The old woman squealed at the foul frowning face, And tripped in the mud, ruddying her shirt made of lace. "Whose turpitude is this, to trip on my riparian?" Said the heinous face, "Ah, 'tis an elderly barbarian." "Who are you to call me a barbarian you hideous imp," Said she, "Why are you in a lagoon, are you baboon or chimp?" "I am no monkey you ancient squawking hen, I am the troll of this toll bridge that crosses my fen. You shall not walk on this bridge further than its middle, Unless you can answer one of my riddles." "Ok, Rumpelstiltskin, need I bare you a son, Once your impetuous petulant riddle is done?" To which the little troll replied with a grin and guffaw, "That would not be possible for your innards are dried straw. Nevertheless, here is my riddle for you to answer: Which disease in you was the deadliest of cancer?" Having only one breast left from the cancer that took it, The woman looked insulted but felt deep inside a sad pit. "The deadliest of all of the cancers is the blessing of beauty in the face, For only mutated atrophy can follow the folly that which time does erase." With that response the little troll let her pass, And she strutted her stuff as she did as a lass.