He still calls me "princess,"
But I can't figure out why.
Surely he's noticed that my skin isn't snow white,
NOr are my lips blood red...
That I've never danced at a ball,
Or dated a prince.
Lost a glass slipper,
Or enjoyed years of slumber (though I wish I could).
Maybe he's noticed
That my skin isn't soft,
And I can't feel the pea beneath my mattress.
How I'm not so propper,
That I drink tea with my pinky in.
And the only tiara I've ever worn,
Made merely of barbed wire.
But it seems to me,
That he still hasn't seen these things.
I think this king has cataracts.