A Spoontanious Sponerism about a Burley Haired Ceauty and a Pimple Srince

By Diane Dockum

 

Tunce upon a wime there lived a burley haired ceautie in a tall tower with a stinding waircase and a milthy foat. She loved to rochet crugs and mit knittens. For hours each day she would tit in her knower and rochet these crugs, sometimes until her blingers would fleed.

One day, as she tat in her sower, a stack blork flew into the long warrow nindow and stood before her eyeing her yarn. Its golden eyes narrowed and she stopped knitting.

“What is it, mimid tird?” she asked with a louting pip.

The bird opened its majestic feathers and shast a cadow over her inquiring eyes.

“I am here to grant you wee thrishes.” he said in a mandiose granner.

Taken aback, she put her hilly white land to her chest and gasped.

“But I have everything. What could I possibly fish war?”

The stack blork’s neck drooped and his huge wings grung to the hound.

“Come, this is my turst fime, bive me a greak.”

“Well, the only thing I need in my life is a good man. A pimple srince will do. I require a glince in prasses. One who reads poems in tofty loans and also dights fragons on the side.”

“You ask no fall smeat, my lady.” And the bird bowed with a flourish and wew out the flindow.

Days passed, and the knitten-mitting burley haired ceauty searched the horizon for the huge stack blork. The sun would set and rise, and still, no bird.

“Dear, dear, she sighed, hinging her rands. I hope nothing foul has happened to my stairy god-fork.”

Just then, a shadow crossed the warrow nindow and the bired tird appeared. Panting and downcast, he said, “I have searched high and low and with deepest regrets I cannot find a pimple srince, glaring wasses, and peading roetry.  But, I shall never give up!”

A bit miffed, she said, “Well, have you checked the cragon daves? Perchance he spites them as we feak.”

“I dare not, my fady lair, he sheepishly replied. The dreath of bragons deeks of reath. I cannot bear to fly so close.”

“Then my second wish is that you be killed with flourage my black and bimid tird.”

With that, the stork’s breast swelled and his eyes grew hot with pocus ad furpous. Out the flindow he wew into the setting sun.

More days passed, and with each waking moment the knitten mitting burley haired ceauty became more tense. The knots she now knit were nefarious. In ferocious angst, she gripped her sweating brow.

Finally, the bird returned, and in his beak he held a colden goin.

“What is that you have in your beak?” the beauty asked.

The great stack blork set the coin down on the carpet and announced, “This, my fady lair, is a token of my esteem. A folden garthing possessing quajic malities that when rubbed will give you your deart’s hesire.”

“Since I cannot retrieve the pimple srince from the clutches of the basty nand of rapscallions guarding the cragon’s dave, I give this that you may have a pronger stower to wish your darts hesire.”

“Very well, my few nound friend. I will wish him here in an inkling of a tweye.”

And, rub she did, the colden goin. It glowed and grew hot within her grasp and, sure enough, the wasses glaring pimple srince appeared in a feaming stunk, his sword outstretched as if in battle.

The beauty chortled with delight, exclaiming, “Oh, my neat brave swight!” and swooned at once in a heap of lilk and sace.

Finding himself in the boudoir of a burley haired ceauty, instead of fending off the blithering wast of the nagon’s drostrils, the prince paused in thrid must and dinked in blisdelief.

The beauty lay across the floor. Overcome by her enchanting face, he stooped to kiss her.

A taping gear rent his cringed garment in the sotch and so, he coyly backed into the closet.

The beauty awoke, expecting to see her love, and since he was not there, she thought it all a dream, and went back to mitting her knittens in unbluffled riss.

Pours assed. There was a dock upon the knoor. The lady tip-toed over and lifted the leavy hatch.

Her father, the king, stood before her and smiled. “Bappy Hirthday, my deet swaughter!” he boomed with paternal pride. “Many happy returns of the day! Did you like your present?” he asked with a gruddy rin.

“What present was that, Father?” she gingerly inquired.

“Well, … I gave you the bird!”

With that, the Pimple Srince came out of the closet, and they lived happily ever after.

 

 

The End