The drifts snow-white cover my apple hair,
I have been poisoned by a fairy tale,the skeleton of a handsome tail;
there were vile warnings not to eat this fare,
on the tapestried green maternal chair.
The fine chocolate was dark and nightly veiled,
as a Persian queen of an empire mailed
her subjects with gossamer notions, chaired
her conscience by a board of designs
both ornate and established, elegant.
She kissed the Prince who turned into a frog:
he leapt, he groaned, he then his past resigned,
the worth of his life's brow, malificent . . .
and hopped away to an imperial bog.
