One time,

Sometime,

There was a non-magical building

In an even more non-magical town,

Where pumpkins and mice

Were as plain as they sound.

 

There were no Great Stone Dragons

Or sentient candelabras,

But only silent statues

And black streets of macabre.

 

Their jawed Kings and Queens

Mounted the system's castes,

Breaking old bourgeois and plebeian spines

To obey spinning arrows' forecasts.   

 

They raked the earth of gold and silver

To become quite richly divine,

And assist their loud Princes and Dames

Kiss frogs and comatose supine.

 

So the Great may elicit talking willow trees,

Or procure even the glassiest of slippers,

But the confines of their translucent bubbles

Lack the gentle hands of cruel cripplers.

 

But in the building long aforementioned,

There were champions like you and me,

Who dreamed higher than any garish fairytale,

Higher, and in greater degree.

 

Even without a lamp, they knew it true,

That challenge was their stage yet to be set:

A groaning patient waiting to be cured,

A grand business goal waiting to be met.

So with a measure of faith

And a little bit of trust,

Anyone can live a true fairytale.

Even sans pixie dust.