the daughter of a miller abducted, exiled, held
locked as prisoner didst bawl
achingly, effusively, indubitably murmured plaintively
quite riotously didst call
out for help when stalked with facing the john deere reaper
with nary a blues clue how to drawl
gentle southern twang the heap of straw,
she needed to transform into gold before the fall
low wing break of dawn, a demand made from king of Gaul
who decreed death to Mister McGrain attested boasted claimed
his daughter adept in the art of alchemy
(taught from a spin stir, the secret
to whip gold from thin air) rake a haul
which lit up like King Midas eyes,
and demanded said girl - papa must install
the golden flaxen edenic dame abhorred, decried, groaned jowl

near dropping to the floor, which sends this teller of tall tales
returns me back into the infinitely jesting feedback loop
at the opening sentence of this poetic riff, where a poor lass
shuttered within a dank, dark cell
staring distraught at floor to ceiling mass
of dry stalks counting down the hours, minutes,
seconds when she will pass
into the maws of death, when
within the blink oven aye, a munchkin – sass
soon before tears of condemned girl yet to dry –
appeared reedy like grass

who vouchsafed, he could enrich
the trumpeting donned king lear
and within a flash, where once piled fetid,
dried, brittle appeared blinding glare
ring mouth watering most precious metal –
inducing fair maiden to grin ear
to ear, and eagerly anticipated his majesty,
who (spoiler alert) made her his dear
lee beloved queen, whence thee royal family
opened shop for the rich –
no doubt that would, which clothing boutique
for wealthy logically be clear
of course incorporating pomp and circumstance
plus knights templars blare
ring thee positive turn of fate,
whence the palace exuded a festive air.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

fast forward to at least a year post golden fleeced couture
when with a “poof”, the trawling impish hunchback
glowered thence slammed the wrought iron drawbridge door
when the divine mother of a plethora of progeny bade bon jure
upon correctly guessing the name of mite size roar
ring elfin grot, who out of rage tore
himself in half – as if within him exploded a civil war.