Cinderella Retold

Poking cinders with my tacky broom,
I fling them round our living-room,
improvise hip-hop on wintry tiles.
I never thought I’d dance barefoot
before my foretold trial.
Fairy God-Mom glides in with her wand.
- You’ll be a princess:
dainty feet and sexy dress,
the fabled combo, carriage and all.
Off to the ball and twirl till dawn!
Oops… till midnight, my girl.
-My dear, remember the tale:
When clocks strike twelve
spells wane, one bids farewell…
And she fades into the brickwork.

In my whalebone bodice
I’m beautiful but airless.
Steering me deftly through the hum,
in silk stockings and fancy footwear,
the Prince’s hand fondles my bum.
I balk at the hackneyed drill
and skip back as the fatal hand
strikes midnight in that dastard land.
There I stand, defiant and tall,
barefoot in the majestic hall,
wearing Indian cotton dress
emphasizing hips and tits,
left arm boasting cobra tattoo.
Royals cringe, but horror makes me bolder;
perhaps I’m slightly unhinged?

Mounted on a black stallion,
the Prince visits our abode, servants
bearing crystal slipper on cushion.
The slipper, you’ll be dismayed,
fits my eldest sister!
My feet (size 12) tend to blister
and I have dirty toenails.
The Prince, infatuated wimp
in state of shock, looks frail.
Taking stock of my situation,
I grab my stuff, demand
some sort of indemnity,
then dash out in fine elation.
Mounting the Prince’s steed,
I gallop off down the track,
hair flying in the breeze
...and never look back.