She occupies no tower room, atop a winding stair.
No Prince climbs up to her cell, using her golden hair.
She waits for no magic kiss, asleep under glass.
No, she paces a corner, cold, with ‘Princess’ across her ***.

No goblin eyes or trollish claws yearn for her proud neck.
No Hero longs for her embrace from upon a heaving deck.
No story ever written or myth that will come to pass
is bolder than the single word; ‘Princess’, across her ***.


No coach and four is coming, nor does a stallion gallantly stride
bearing a regal husband to a blushing, ****** bride.
A simple bus of yellow, as bold as the brightest brass,
comes to pick up the reluctant girl with ‘Princess’ across her ***.


So come you expectant ******, yearning to see her again;
Paper clean and ready, ink filling the pen.
You find the story continues, the ending now up to you
as you find, to your surprise(?); the Princess is ‘Juicy’ too.