Prinsessen paa Ærten, Revised
Oh, I don't know. A feather bed? she sighed,
Twined into him, breast pressed against his arm.
They're soft, though allergenic. What's the harm?
As Princess to you, Sir, I'd love that ride.
He blushed, imagining Himself astride
Her royal form, politely coughed, and warned:
You must not just be sensitive: for Charm,
Intelligence, and Grace become My bride.
She snorted, quite un-Princesslike. My Lord,
You're disingenuous. I mean, Hello?
One hundred thousand mattresses, you see,
Won't fool the dullest girl from my old ward.
I'm who you want as Queen, because I know
That hardness that I felt was not a pea.