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.