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Little White Rose

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A little princess, alone in her room, said after a sigh,
“Without a prince, what good am I?”
And gazed at the little white rose.

She was a princess with almost everything,
With dresses of silk, and satin, and lace,
In pink and yellow and blue.
She had a castle, with turrets and balconies,
That lit up the world like a streetlamp downtown.
And she had a guard and a sweet old maid,
Who brushed her hair and drew warm baths.
And she had a forest, with deep dark paths,
That led to nowhere but silence.

Like any princess with almost everything,
she had brooches and bracelets and earrings of gold,
And the royal tiaras of stories told.
And, of course, a trademark dog,
A fluffy, flop-eared, tiny brown pup,
And a pink and gold hot cocoa cup.

But she didn’t have a prince.

And she didn’t have a mermaid tail,
or an ugly frog to kiss,
or a fairy-tale book with “once upon a time…”
or a previous life of rags and grime.
Her skin was not pale, but olive
and her hair was fire, not gold.
No fairy-godmother could ever exist
to give this princess pearls for her wrist.
Her character was far from demure,
And her manners were less than divine.

So the little princess, alone in her room,
sniffed the little white rose.
And then with sadness and after a sigh,
said, “Without a prince, what good am I?”

“A princess, of course, with everything else,”
said the little white rose in reply.





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