Grimhilde, vain busybody in a snow tale,
You morphed on impulse, blunt in self-reflection,
Put the blind on to get your apples sold:
You spun a deep sleep with goofer dust,
Gilded dwarfs all in a whirling trance,
Saved by a charming prince;
All lived happily ever, save for you- fallen malignity.
In a village, ornately dressed, silent bearded men
Bowling nine-pins in a bumbingly hollow
While Ol Rip got snookered:
Needling sleep down from dreams;
Thunderous booms, muffled musket,
Eyesight scarcely visible, he awoke gray and ramshackled.
Got crowned and cackled for pronouncing a king.
An ant, a storer of food for the cold season
Persisted while a grasshopper infinitely wrapped
Himself in merriment and song: spry green deus;
Ex laborer (did not seem deterred by this).
Winter’s filament tighter to a frozen, beggar’s death,
One exoskeleton in a bug’s morgue;
Persevered on a set course no scruple could disrupt.
The whole revolving tall glass hill
Where a king’s daughter kept from sliding:
Macintosh’s in her lap (sprinkled with goofer dust),
Awaiting knights flickering on wooden horses;
Save for one who sat on ashes,
Reflecting candles waxing; three apples a day
Kept his highness away. Happily ever after.
Copyright © 11/06/18 lance sheridan®