The Lady curtsies low to taste an egg
of past-tense vittles, half the size
of her dainty pixie seal-smooth head;
and the Prince, royal with denim jeans,
does not demur and polishes
their gleaming orange disc instead.
A leering bipedal brute,
unshorn in plaid and cowhide coat,
points and drools and chuffs at them,
as his mate picks at her cuticles
and wipes some snot on a mohair sleeve.
Catching each others gazes, they growl
over what meat to eat upon returning
to their shared wooden dwelling
in the middle of their yard.
And so, as the magic hour rings its golden bell,
the cow-licked Prince and jingling Lady,
with his hard-earned scabbed and knobby knees
and her spit-shined snaggle-toothed smile,
bound by love and leash alike,
twirl forward, a splendid cotillion for two,
parading home for their gruel ambrosia and tea.