“So stressful being a warrior princess!”

she groaned, her golden hair in a mess  

as she hacked at the vines and sharp thorns that sprang

in her way, each a sap-sticky fang.

“I’ve tackled terribly brave tests thus far

but have no deep bonds of love, bar

those of dear Papa and Mama and family, who

I cherish most keenly. What to do?”

She cut and she slashed and she tore at the growth

with loud lurid curses and many an oath.

At last, she arrived at the castle’s front door

then dashed up to the very top floor.

Prince Charming lay deep in the sleep of the dead --

the bad fairy’s bump still there on his head.

The princess was smitten, he was so damned handsome.

“Is he,” she wondered, “my dreamy true one?”

The room smelled of lavender, roses, and such.

She kissed his sweet lips, tender to touch.

He awoke, then sniffed, asking “What is that odor?

The pungent pong left by an unloved diesel motor?”

“Good grief,” he gasped, “the stink springs from that scruffy wench!”

The princess’s concerns now were quite intense,

for she looked at her clothes, saw her face in a mirror,

then cried out, “Please stay still, young sirrah.”

My tale ends well for the prince he stayed put

while the princess she shot off hot foot --

quick bath, shampoo, then perfume, and lace,

her stained armor dropped all over the place.

Her full flowing feminine fashion he saw:

she kissed him again with passion and more.

They were married soon after, lived forever in bliss --

the warrior princess was armed with a kiss.