Hansel and Gretel

The stale woman’s beastly,
pomaded pimple,
which rose inches off her deformed face,
was there to greet the children as they skipped
jubilantly, with much perkiness to the red and white
striped barbershop poll.

The girl drooled as she stared up, fixed at the pole which she was now almost directly under;
her mouth seemed to become a sea
of churning froth.

The boy opened his clam like beak, as
if to take a bite out of the tacky,
glass cylinder,
in which the swirls were trapped.

And the senile,
calcium deficient lady,
smirked, as her
dead branch head
ideated
scraping off the tongues of the children with barber scissors.

Before any communication could arise
the small, tiny
boy hurdled upon the cylinder and began to dig his
serrated, thorny teeth
into the glass.

Shards
rained down onto
the five-year-old girl’s feet.
Her stocking covered feet began to bleed,
and she made interesting, red textures on the ground.
Uncontrollable twitching
spread to her frail arms.

And the decrepit elderly lady
began to shriek
as she stared at the little girl and then
up at the pole that hypnotized her only a second ago:

A tragedy for all.