Up in the powder room of a faraway castle,
Sat four princesses; right spoiled little rascals.
They sat by their mirrors, preening their locks,
Mocking the fifth, “likely out licking rocks.”
Crash! went the window, and smash! went the door,
In came Princess Five with a face wanting war,
She was covered in slime and a strange kind of grot,
Then in Princess One’s hair, she hocked up some snot.
The lumpy green bogey was as thick as emulsion,
And set off a terrible sense of revulsion,
“SERVANTS,” yelled One, “GET ME THE SHAMPOO,”
“TO WASH OFF THIS FESTERING GLOBULE OF GOO.”
A real princess you’ll never be!” she yelled at her sister,”
You’d be lucky to kiss the crown prince’s toe blister!”
“Yeah!” yelled the others, “You’re totally manky!”
One of them sobbed gently into her hanky.
“Yeah?” yelled number Five, “Like I give a flip,”
“Whilst you were here preening, I ate from a skip,”
She was no ugly duckling prone to floods of tears,
But a proud, beastly girl with a mucky veneer.
On the “Crown Princess Auditions” sign perched on the easel,
She chortled and scrawled, “Number One, she’s a weasel,”
She then screamed the house down, yelling, “I’m doing a poo!”
Something even the prissiest princesses are likely to do.
Audition day came, and the other four neatly assembled,
With the thought of marrying the prince, they gleefully trembled,
The way to win this prize, explained an official in red,
Was to detect the vegetable hidden somewhere in this bed.
“Oh, easy,” One cried, “They must all be mad,”
“To test us with something so dismally trad,”
“I’ve trained my whole body to detect errant peas,”
“Why, yes, even the crooks of my beautiful knees.”
She strode up to the bed, the cocky little wench,
Only to recoil at its unbearable stench,
“Good god,” she coughed, “This putrid stagnation,”
“Would test the future head of any a nation.”
Her three little acolytes followed in suit,
Spluttering and recoiling— whilst still looking cute,
“Crikey moses,” number Two coughed, “What a terrible funk,”
“It smells like our sister, or maybe a skunk.”
Meanwhile, said sister had hatched a dread scheme:
Put a frog in the bed, to induce a vile dream,
Beneath the bedcovers she started to sneak,
Only to let out the most dreadful of shrieks.
“It’s thwarted my plan, this acrid old lump,”
“Which is currently poking right into my rump,”
With joy, the official yelled, “She’s found the pickled onion!”
“Of course she has,” sneered number One, “the fetid old bunion.”
With trepidation, the crown prince leaned in for a peck,
Until number Five scoffed, “I’ll wring your fat neck.”
The official nervously handed over her staff,
And stabbing the frog, she made her first royal gaffe.