Three nonconsecutive generations that can -- No -- Will – spit the timeless fairytale of that princess Who never lost glass slippers -- or Touched poisoned spindles -- or Ate strangers’ apples -- or Dealt with witches – and We are that dry, plain Eucharist-wafer taste on your tongue That paralyzing cramp between your toes That still-alive, still-wiggling earthworm’s six separate, butchered body parts We stole the words from journalists’ larynx, His statistics, his inference, his prowess His bias came hungry and ate the bread crumbs from our hands. The name mother-bird doesn’t carry as much weight these days. Collectively considered and individually squandered, We’re the nonsense jumbled-word search in your local Sunday paper. And you’ll have us whether you like or not with your large coffee and bagel.