You know how girls, when they’re younger,
Pretend to descend into slumber,
Because they know they’ll wake up under a handsome prince
And place their face upon his lips–
I’d take a kiss.
Is it my mistake or was I missed?
Now she’s confined a mile high
With no stairs or elevator.
But then a guy climbs up the tower with her hair to save her.
Well, I’ve been waiting here for hours,
Where’s my savior?
Does this pattern imply that there’s no royal guy like me?
None who would flatter a guy, like me?
Or is that just a lie I see?
Are the princes resisting their innocent wishes
For the sake of tradition and poise?
Do princes like boys?
This thought gives me rest.
I’m relieved to believe I’m not caught in this rest,
So I’m not stressed.
I’ll wait for the hate to subside
When my date can ride on his quest
And test his kiss on my lips having gone numb.
Someday my prince will come.