To you, oh reader fair,
Of a child brought to doom.
The tragedy's her hair.
Golden curls sprang from her head--
Real gold!--fine, smooth, and pure.
A couple clippings from her scalp
Could any thing procure.
Good fortune, yes, it seems to be.
Ah, but luck's a curse.
To a such a girl as Hair-of-Gold
Wealth never has done worse.
Though given all she'd ever want
She never could be pleased.
She threw out meat a tad too tough
As if it were diseased.
She wouldn't eat a blackened pie
Or drink water less than cold.
Perfection only she required.
When she was eight years old,
Tales reached her ears of Faerie Realm
Where everything was good.
This place of magic, it was said,
Lay in the Darkened Wood.
Her neighbors told her it was bad
And begged her not to stray.
But Curls-of-Gold was sick of them
And so she would not stay.
She thought she'd rule the Faerie Realm.
She thought she'd be their queen.
And so she left! By human eyes
She never more was seen.
For she got lost. The forest dimmed.
Her belly growled. She floundered.
She'd only missed a single meal,
But quickly hunger found her.
Now, the end of Locks-of-Gold
I tell you with despair.
While wishing for some porridge,
She got eaten by a bear.
--April 8, 2013
Prompt: a Ballard. (I wrote this early this month, and it works. Plus, you don't go assigning ballards on a Thursday. You just don't.)
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