Friday, September 4, 2009

Rumpelstiltskin

Rumpelstiltskin wrote a book; he called it MY TRUE STORY.

He maintained his innocence and said he wasn't sorry

For his actions in the tale we headline to this day –

How he tried to trick a girl to give her child away.

First of all, the media was biased as can be;

Old Rump said they would never give him primetime on TV.

The newspapers misquoted him, the talk shows trashed him good.

He claimed that Mr. Rogers did refuse him neighborhood.

The Rump man had a tragic life, he writes in Chapter One.

In school he was the object of the rudest kind of fun.

In Chapter Two his father dies, his mother takes in boarders.

He had to polish all the shoes they left out in the corridors.

In Chapter Three he runs away and joins a band of robbers.

In Chapter Four he falls in love and really gets the slobbers.

In Chapter Five she breaks his heart by giving him the air.

In Chapter Six he cries so much he loses all his hair.

Now he starts to go to town by making claims quite wild;

He says that fickle little gal was going to have his child.

She got an order from the king to keep him far away.

Rumpelstiltskin thought that all his wits would go astray.

The child was born and never told about his father dear.

Until one night by bribery old Rump was in the clear.

He got to see his little boy asleep upon some straw

Before the witchy mother a large blunderbuss did draw.

The little boy awoke and cried "Who is that ugly man?"

 This was more than Rump could take and so away he ran.

He never saw his child again; the mother spread such lies

That the Brothers Grimm began to puff them to the skies.

He had to leave the country so he wouldn't go to jail,

Haunted by the infamy brought on by fairy tale.

That, at least, is what he writes – he takes three-hundred pages

To get his lurid story told in prosy, windy stages.

It never should have gotten out of any bookstore's cellar;

But today it tops the lists, a national bestseller.

I suspect the truth of it lies somewhere in between;

Our memory is nothing but a hazy, dim smoke screen.



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