Death to Cinderella

Back then and when, and add some more.
Young Stacey Tyler was only four.
Though good at math, and loved to read.
It was baby dolls she sadly received.
All pretty in pink, with a matching dress.
That fit young Stacey, her parent’s princess.
Feed and change that plastic thing.
Clean up after it, no time to sing.
That was left for Sleeping beauty.
It’s Cinderella that’s your call of duty.
Be pretty, be quiet and wait to be saved.
Forget independence, or being so brave.
For that will be your stories’ end.
No adventures after, no lovers or friends.
Give your man a home and then a child.
With smiles for him, well-mannered and mild.
Subservient is the way to be.
Come now Stacey, copy me.
Her mother had cooed from before she could remember.
Trophied on a pedestal, her brain now a dying ember.
But Stacey, though four, knew better than this
And knew there were things that she didn’t want to miss.
She didn’t really care for babies or bottles.
It was Dr. Seus she craved, and even Aristotle.
To save her from her mother’s fate.
Of giving birth and gaining weight.
Stacey pledged that very day.
To speak up and out, and have her say.
Out with the pink and the notions of gender.
A determined mind, and a heart so tender.
And that is why, with thirty years spent.
Little Stacey is running to be president.

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