rumplestiltskin.

say my name, say my name.
and if you guess the really real one,
i'll grab my beard and my boots and rip myself in half.
gangster.
i'm not exactly spinning straw into gold,
and i definitely don't want a baby in trade,
but i do feel like i'm creeping up on a doo-doo buttery
batch of dirty deeds and late night skullduggery.
yeah.
i said it:
skullduggery.
i may mean skull-crushing drudgery,
but either way,
in this instance of folktale fairy business,
i get to be the bad guy.
okay, in most instances i get to be the bad guy.
something about disproportionately long arms,
giant hands,
and enormous teeth.
that sh!t is scary.
personally,
i think it's the hazel eyes and beard.
it's an incongruity, son.
bright and shiny orbs of introspection,
and a scraggly unabomber face-pube chin-'fro.
sensitive villainy, or summat.
then again,
ol' mr. grumples rumplestilts was super short...
so at least i'm above average in terms
of my dwarven creature size.
i'm either a huge fairy,
or a tiny giant.
i'll let ya'll throw the obvious snideness at me at your leisure.
whatever.
bad guy politics are in play.
it's XI-mastime,
and the fattie stacks of loot are dieting i guess;
what used to be bloated is looking mad slim, ninjas.
and that means my movie-checks need the
name-game flax stack attacking,
or it won't be close to the eleven days of dopeness.
more like the fleeting glimpse of gayness.
with way more tissue paper to take up space inside empty boxes.
metallic foil wrapping paper notwithstanding.
word.
it's sunday,
i'm easy, just like it,
lovage is on the hi-fi,
the sun is out,
the sky is blue,
and before the evening gets here,
it'll all be buried in a blizzard.
fleeting flecks of fresh;
never quiet, never soft.....