You've heard a few stories,

or must've heard one

Of princess, 

of prince,

Of aloft humpty dum?

Or jack who took Jilly

too far down the hill,

And lo

They remain

At the bottom, there, still.


Or might you recall

the generous pipe

Of a would-piper,


Could piper hype

a village so far that

they follow him thus;

with the men

their women,

and not children, just?


Oh, how such pipe-dreams

Are not just what they seem;

You've heard them before

So why not hear more?

Believe all you hear,

Though ghosts may appear

To fill up your heads

with words of the dead.


Do still they ring true,

Though their sayers are due

For the publisher's paycheck

And the copyright's spell-check?

You decide whether Cindy,

'Ole maiden in blue

Truly wore garments true.

Or sleepy Aurora, or

What'er her name may be

woke with a start

to find the prince, or thee.


Did these stories live

Apart from your hearts?

You spoke them

And heard them;

And picked them apart.


Though pages are filled

With all they may've been,

You, child, decide what power

may lie therein.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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