A Warning to Princes

The maiden lay her weary head
upon her soft and silk-clad bed,
a sigh escaped from her heaving breast
as she lay her fragile frame to rest.

She wondered when her prince would come
and whisk her off for a life of fun.
She was bored shitless in her ivory tower,
combing her hair from hour to hour.

(She had to look simply divine
or passing princes just didn’t have the time.)

I mean, have you ever wondered how the story goes
if the princess gets a pimple on her nose?
Or if her corset doesn’t fit?
Or she doesn’t like the prince one bit!

But beggars can’t be choosers they say
and freedom has a price to pay.
So she strings them along like a heartless hag
(at least until they’ve had a shag.)

She’s all grace and beauty and smiles
(she never lets on about the piles)
And they never ask, it wouldn’t be proper,
but she always tells them they’ve got a whopper.

This keeps them happy and they save her day,
then in the morning she’s on her way.
Her freedom won and she cuts her hair
and as she goes past the peasants stare.

“Wasn’t that the damsel from the ivory tower,
who combed her hair from hour to hour?
Enslaved forever by a wicked witch,
with a rather odd nervous twitch?”

And people gossiped and wondered at
the stylish bob beneath her hat.
Where was her prince? Where had he gone?
But the maiden knew she’d find another one.

Because men can’t resist a damsel in distress,
wearing a beautiful (and low-cut) dress.
They bowed their heads and asked her to stay,
she said, “Ok, as long as you pay.”

So they wined and dined her on long summer nights,
and danced with her until she laddered her tights.
So be wary men, and hedge your bet,
women are only out for what they can get.

The sex may be good, the cooking divine,
but they’ll never let you call them “mine”.
Their hearts are wild and their spirits are free
a good little wife they never shall be.


Copyright © Emma Williams