Snow

I thought that I would have a go at writing my own poem, like Oliver's Red Riding Hood one.

Your skin was pale; your lips were red,

“Our home is yours”, that’s what we said,

We took you in, you helped us too,

You cleaned our house, you made us stew,

My brothers and I, we didn’t know your name,

We didn’t know your story; we didn’t know your game,

On that night we were asleep in bed,

When you put a bullet through Grumpy’s head,

Then you killed Happy, Bashful, and Doc,

So I ran and hid in the grandfather clock,

Sleepy and Sneezy, they soon met your gun,

Out of my brothers, I was the luckiest one,

Their blood stained the carpet where they did lie,

And I knew right then that you needed to die,

I lifted my pickaxe, brought it to your head,

After a few swings, you were also dead,

I stepped over your body, lifeless on the floor,

I left it behind me; I walked out the door,

It’s a mystery, Snow; what happened to you,

Still nobody knows. Except me. I do.