hair of the dog

welcome to wildling bog, 
where we are full of beans
and chase our november 
(s)word hangovers with applesauce,
daisy chain crowns and trees. 

we wily wenches 
climb no stairs 
(of hair or otherwise) 
we spin no gold 
we bear no bling  
(the corsets were too tight).

we swim no sea
we spin with glee 
and we’ve had four rums 
              (each) 
since midnight. 

see, here’s the thing: 
princesses, we’re not. 

we’ve dumped our princes
to dance with dragons
(careful now, they’re hot). 

we didn’t think much of 
ballrooms, and tiaras  
made us tired. 

 here steeped in mud
-luscious freedom, 
we’ve said (and made) 
our peace. but 
we hope that you will 
make the effort to heed  
one last sentence, please: 

no shoes required. 

::

Prompted by Miz Quickly:

https://imprompt.wordpress.com/2022/11/04/day-4/

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