whistle while you work,
hum a little tune
as dust settles over candles
and you take up the broom;
princesses tell you sternly,
“you must keep clean your house,
and if you hum a little ditty,
the time is sure to pass”
so your fingers flex so finely
as you make clear your throat
and sidestep seven scattering mice
who dance around a moat;
you sing a song so sickly sweet
that salt seeps from your eyes;
your voice is vapid, your tone is off,
it won’t take them long to realize—
the kings and queens
who sent you here,
the lords and ladies
you hold dear
even birds
in maple trees
all will hear
and all will see
the type of princess you will be
Photo by Michael Maasen on Unsplash