“Untangle me and weave me into Rug
and place me on the kingdom’s palace floor
where every foot can step, and homeless bug
can hide. And store the vacuum by the door.”
So ordered by the Queen of Childhood’s House
whose spirit had been stolen by a witch.
The queen had snipped the pecker off her spouse,
the king, and he’d become her lonely bitch,
pretty of face and soft to touch, but sad,
so sad he tossed their daughters in a dump.
Now nothing could be done for mum and dad,
the royal Hairbrush stuck with straw, a clump
of youthful wishes lost in faulty lust,
the palace and its owners gone to dust.