Naughty Story Poem by Val Morehouse

Sit down little one, and I’ll tell you a story, just
hand over my deck of wicked stepmothers scary,
spells, curses, schemes, and no-money-down deals from
ordinary folks who embezzle the poor and unfortunate.

Here we go right down this path into trackless forests,
where dark falls thick as a curtain and twice as fast,
rambos high on bloodlust mutter incantations,
and winning lottery tickets go lost. Oh look!

Over there pontificating gnomes, creepy dwarves,
and wolves toting AK-47’s drooling dog-breath behind the door
of that pretty little candy cottage where forgotten
dreams lie buried in duct tape and plastic.

Enter, and your broken glass slippers just keep right on dancing.
Take your pick. It’s a either a feast of bread crumbs, or
poisoned apples, served up by, er, big-breasted witches du jour.
Smoke and mirrors enough for everyone, my dove.

Comfy dead zones with no cell phones. Yessiree,
cynicism is a address somewhere in Idaho, not a state of mind
where... “But Grandpa, why does it always take
so long for the prince to come? ”

“Because it’s actuality, girl, not reality.”
But...? That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
I’ll take that sports section back now.
Wasn’t that fun?