A/N: DON'T WORRY MY OTHER TWO STORIES WILL BE UPDATED SOON I JUST COULD NOT RESIST THIS AFTER SEEING THE PICTURE ON FACEBOOK :D

disclaimer: Hima-Papa owns ALLLLL.


Gilbert smirked. It was perfect; if Elizaveta didn't fall for him instantly after this then that was it; he would jump off a fucking cliff and end his miserable excuse for an existence already.

He licked the envelope closed and even added a little Gilbird sticker for added affect. Then he gave the actual letter to the actual Gilbird, sending his faithful companion off with tears in his eyes. The journey would be treachorous, he knew, and wished the small ball of fluff the best of luck. Oh, sweet Elizaveta, your horn dog will be arriving shortly, at your request...


SEVERAL HOURS LATER IN BUDAPEST

Said Hungarian beauty was currently polishing her frying pan in her kitchen when she heard that strange 'piyo, piyo' sound. Sighing, she braced it for impact and cautiously opened the door. Blinking once, she was surprised to find that Gilbert was not there; just his pet bird... donning an envelope. "Oh dear God," she moaned, accepting it. The little fluff ball looked mighty proud of itself and flew off with a tweet.

Holding the letter like it was a dangerous disease, Elizaveta grabbed her letter opener and tore the envelope open.

Hungary, oh Hungary, how does one describe thee

To begin, your sexy body makes me hard as a tree

Your hair is as brown as the dirt on the ground

And your voice is like some kind of beautiful sound

Your eyes are so green like the grass in the yard

I mean it, Hungary, you make me so hard

Your boobs are quite big, a D-cup at least

I feel really horny, I'm a raging sex beast

You're short but it's cute, you're dressed like a maid

If you were a whore, I'd make sure you got paid

I love you Hungary, you're one of a kind

I want my penis in your vagina.

Love, Your Raging Sex Beast, Gilbert

Elizaveta had a face like -_-.

"Seriously Gilbert, that last line didn't even rhyme."


Several days later, Gilbert was sporting a nasty bruise all across the left side of his face. You can guess who gave such a lovely gift to him.

Oh well, maybe he could say something to Ukraine next time about her F-sized cups and face the wrath of Russia. After all, nothing stops a man when he's tree-hard. Except, apparently, frying pans...


A/N: I don't own that poem. Kudos to the writer.