Once upon a time there was a fairytale which hid under the covers,
trying to avoid going to work.
But a damn Wolf came in and ate the story up,
mistaking it for a Grandmother. By the time a Woodsman
had sliced open said Wolf, this was not a happy fairytale.
It visited three famous little pigs, but it was a little bit too late;
they were not building houses of various materials,
they all had homes of brick;
pigs are brighter than you think.
The Story was in a fix.
If it climbed a beanstalk, it would surely find that Jack had already
done whatever one does
at the top of beanstalks.
This was a ‘Three Princes’ fairytale,
but because it had decided not
to do its job,
the Wicked Witch ate
the Dragon
which could not,
therefore,
imprison the Princess,
who went free
and decided
Royalty was for the birds
and started a bar and grill,
where she is today,
has been there twenty-five years now,
big drinks,
good food,
big portions.
And sometimes,
if you ask the ex-Princess, she
might
tell you a story.
But not a fairytale.
That fairytale never did
get told;
but it freed someone,
and that’s more than most stories do,
unless you really believe
that ‘happily ever after’
is a reality
(how static, to always be happy!)
and not simply
a benediction.
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