He was tired, ah choo!
of the whole, predictable, ah choo,
tale. The way the princess, ah choo!
how she, sniff, how she, sniff,
how she always rode off
with the well-muscled man
on the, ah choo, horse. Often white.
He was, he decided,
allergic to ha-, ha-, ha-
happy endings. Ah choo!
Just whose happiness
were they considering,
not his, with his snot-nose name,
his raw nostrils, his perpetual sniffling
and blowing, wheezing and phlegm.
That day that the white-skinned one arrived,
no matter how lovely by some standards,
no matter how sweetly she patted him on the head,
no matter how innocent her intentions,
that was the day he wrote his resignation,
took Dopey by the stubby hand and said,
Man, it’s time to write a new kind of story.