On one appalling evening stroll, we passed an old hare
snoozing in a ditch - he stopped and made a note - and then, about a mile further on, a tortoise, somebody's pet,
creeping, slow as marriage, up the road. Slow but certain, Mrs Aesop, wins the race. Asshole.
What race? What sour grapes? What silk purse,
sow's ear, dog in a manger, what big fish? Some days
I could barely keep awake as the story droned on
towards the moral of itself. Action, Mrs A., speaks louder
than words. And that's another thing, the sex
was diabolical. I gave him a fable one night
about a little cock that wouldn't crow, a razor-sharp axe
with a heart blacker than the pot that called the kettle.
I'll cut off your tail, all right, I said, to save my face,
That shut him up. I laughed last, longest.
Mrs Aesop fittingly ends with reference to a  proverb , not one of Aesop’s, ‘he who laughs last laughs longest.’ She demonstrates, through her stridency and anger, her superiority and triumph.
Mrs Aesop