Watch out for the ogre, guys. I can hear him
climbing the stone stairs, trailing his nailed club
as he limps up and up. At the wrong door
you all kept vigil. He has got behind you.
He's closer now. His boots scuffle and slide.
The upshot always is, "He's going to get you."
They gasp, if the timing's right, and are content.
Those stupid bears. Those damn fool pigs. Wolves. Mice.
Bears and oatmeal? Perfect. Talking chickens?
Fairies and trolls? Let's have a story called
The Wicked Jogger or Three Billy Goats
and Their Tax Auditor. "Forget it, Dad."
Stick to what's unseen. What never could be
Plunks them the deepest; pulses thrill to beanstalks;
the house of twigs still stands, as green as summer.
Mom's gone. She was enlightened by a genie
who's granted her three wishes and red shoes.
"No, Dad. Come on." Well, then, there was this frog
who kissed this princess who wore golden slippers
and never met a prince she didn't like.
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