The Trouble with Being Charming
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They say she slept a hundred years
In her castle room amid the thorns,
And all alone that hundred years
Her dreams evolved in wondrous forms,
Revolved and flowed around her bed
And charmed the hidden, sleeping child
In waves of violet and red,
For all the hundred years, she smiled!
But then the sweating prince came in,
Scratched from the thorns and smelling stale,
And claimed the prize he'd come to win -
there, usually, ends the tale.
But she had had a century
In which to gather expectations,
She had grown used to ecstacy,
He offered Marital Relations.
Oh, she tried to love her lover true,
But he seemed less and less than Charming,
And, when the honeymoon was through
Her mood grew more and more alarming!
The Prince's triumph turned to rust
In the tears of his morose Auroara.
It was not to earn a maid's disgust
He'd chopped through all that thorny flora.
So in the end, for both their goods
He gave it up and faced the fact,
Again cut through the bramble woods,
And took her there, and put her back!