where you could eat the walls. The roof was made of royal icing. It dried on thick and hard. And the tiles were sugar-coated gumdrops that the birds pecked off before the fall. Candy
canes for doorways you could lick. But they’d stick to your lips. And after that you couldn’t get your mouth open a crack. It looked to all outside a very pleasant place to reside. But no one knew
it was a cathouse, and that the field marshal was a master of disguise who drew the curtains over her candy-shop of horrors. And welted our bottoms with hot molasses stuck to a long wooden spoon. Some
where even jealous of me. They thought I had chocolate pudding drawn for my bath. And that my bed was made in lemon meringue. I wouldn’t tell them the truth. I didn’t want to break the spell they were under. Everyone needs to believe in something.