Tuesday, 8 November 2011

most wicked

i do not care for silly hats, tiaras made of gold,
i do not care for pumpkins, mice, or ball gowns (new and old);
and never cared for handsome princes (god, i hate them most),
what's probably worse are crystal shoes! and wearers oft who boast.

and really who keeps mirrors now? even those that in tongues speak,
for all i want to hear is how i'm prettier than child, so weak;
and even then it would serve best to whisk away, let dwarves apart,
than have a hunter sin behest, then lie instead with foul boar's heart!

woe is me yet, i can't tell lies, like roses red for my safe keep,
for 'ternal beauty one's soul vies, and this is source enough to weep;
take steady aim! release your shot, and pierce this wretched, beastly heart,
you see skin deep a slyly plot, it matters not, death does me part.

i'd be surprised, if you still cared for women's rights in france,
do you still think we live backwards, in dark ages, perchance?
and do not think i care the least for golden flawless hair,
(but, heavens, it's so silky smooth, it would make a fine stair).

i do care, though (you'd be surprised) of 'chanted spinning looms,
they fill my heart with so much dread, of demise and of dooms;
but thwarted (yet again, curses!) by one true love's first kiss,
my plan, it was so perfect so, i wonder what i missed?

and sometimes i do love to frolic with souls of the damned,
so that i may enact out all the nasties i have planned;
i could not care less for green frogs, or toads, or of the sort,
though french-prepared frogs legs are nice (i kill them 'times for sport).

i sometimes care for cooling breeze, though not for colours of the wind,
but who can care for dainty child, especially those who have erst sinned?
but maybe it will be alright, if left to stand there hand in hand,
behind them all i plot to take, their gold, buffalo, wives and land.

i notice sometimes, in the night, when tigers eyes' are shining bright,
a desert rose, or diamond rough, that in the darkness then takes flight;
but give up power, gold and love, i cannot do this for my health,
and envy still a beggar's luck, a sultan's will, a daughter's wealth.

i cared not for the longest while, of sickly sorrow sweet,
voices of an angel though at expense of one's feet;
thus vanity, oh, vanity, so pointless to impress,
for what? for men? for dainty forks? to wear a pretty dress?

a fighting spirit, now that is cause for someone to envy,
i'd say i care, but, no, i don't, i'm just not that savvy;
but stab me through the heart and find gender is no import,
reflections of cherry blossoms in a river for sport!

and lastly curse my aching back, i could not feel a thing,
and yet those supple children feel a pea of a sapling;
how could this be fair, one must ask, in light of all that's right,
i will not care, i cannot care, i shan't with greatest might!

and so my sisters, up in arms! your call has come to fight!
who dares shun and belittle our solemn, slightly plight?
a curse on them, a doom on them, a hex of dark voodoo!
beware young child, your time is nigh, we're out in search of you!

*written on behalf of all the wicked witches, horrible stepmothers, ghouls and ghosts and scheming antagonists. for all the knifing, backstabbing, treacherous knaves, this one is for you*

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