I’m used to living in the woods.
I talk to birds but not as much
As in the times when I was good
And nice to watch and firm to touch.
My hair is like my name – snow white.
My apple phobia has peaked.
I wear stuff that’s loose and wide
And mirrors tend to get me piqued.
At last I understand the queen:
Her insecurities, her grief
At getting older (no one’s keen)
As beauty proved to be so brief.
She must have been dejected then
And vowed to fight it to the end.
It must be truly tragic when
A mirror is your only friend.
She claimed she heard the mirror speak
And tell her lots of pleasant stuff.
It could be that her mind was weak
And such delusions could be tough.
What awful punishments she planned
(In poisoned ink in hefty tomes)
For me, the fairest in the land…
She would be pleased: I’m old and bland.
I hear it from my garden gnomes.
They scare me with their pranks and grins,
The seven sneaky little spies.
They taunt me: where's your loving prince?
Why don't you bake an apple pie?
They tell me I should face my fears
And get myself a mirror … No,
For mirrors offer only jeers
And lies – and none as white as snow.