The Princess Gets Wed

October is on its way.
The wetted browns of New England give way to the white
                                                                  sands of Florida.
In the old days, the pigs on your abuela’s finca would be 
                                                                           getting fat.
Pigs are no geese, you know.
They lay no golden eggs, just wee porkers.
Actually, there have been no golden eggs since you were
                                                                                    born.
Times have been hard, 
straw has fallen well below market price.
No matter which way I spin it, as I repeatedly point out,
your kingdom, or should I say princessdom, your subjects.
All of us.
We wait expectantly.

How did that  pea get  under your posturapedic in the first
                                                                                   place?
We are sorry: Your mom, your servants, and I.
We apologize.
I,  oh-so-humbly acknowledge that
it’s nobody’s fault,
Which is why I fired Berengeria, your chambermaid.
A gesture of ruthless power and ego on my part,
but to raise a Princess takes a hard heart.
Just ask my frog footman.
During our time-and-motion research tour of the lily pond,
you kissed the frog.
He then asked me for your hand, but remained truculently
                                                                                froggish.

Please accept the Three Wishes granted by your plebeian 
                                                                                fan club.
Good hair. Good nails. And storage for ten million pairs of
                                                                                   shoes.
Hopefully this will heal the schism caused by the rebellious goth elves.
Who could have predicted the lowered output at the black
                                                                 nail polish factory?
The wildcat strike by the glass slipper cobblers?
The redundancies. The jobs farmed out to Timbuktu.
Yet,  meanwhile, nonchalant and hungry,
you ate the bruja’s apple,
so that you and your whole royal court slept.
Slept and slept and slept for six-and-a half years.
Only to be awakened  by a kiss
from your non-somnolent frog friend.

Having never walked a mile in your pumps,
let me reassure you of my empathy.
Considering the status quo and your  circumstances,
I  empathize with your reluctance to let down your lovely 
                                                                               tresses. But, as I so noted earlier, winter is on its way,  my
                                                      rheumatism is acting up
and your guests have traveled far to reach the peripheries of
                                                               your magic kingdom.
Many of your ungrateful courtiers are gossiping obstreperously,
wringing their hands, demanding free medical care.
Yet, your mother and I, we have been standing here,
not to mention the 3,000 plus guests and villagers, waiting
 at the base of  your White Tower. Waiting.
As you said, Yea and were on your royal way.