Lost that dull plot so many years ago,
Some guy named Heathcliff, a prim, proper room;
Something dark on the moors portending doom—
(No, wait—that was “Baskervilles”, different show).

A wuthering woman, her savage beau—
A conflict with tradition, hearts in thrall;
Romantic English swoons. Forgot them all
While seeking the plot beneath a willow.

Catherine? Constance? The heroine’s name
Escapes me evermore, and I don’t care.
A Brontë sister here receives the blame

For boring me with chick-lit and hot air.
That’s all I can recall. The novel’s fame
Would indicate there must be something there . . .