The Complaint

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"She's not the lovely princess I married!" we hear the Prince complain.

"She's gone to seed! I just can't stand it! Merely looking at her gives me pain!"



Now mind you, the sad unlucky soul upon whom such misfortune should fall

rolls out of bed in the morning light looking like Grog the Neandertal.



He scratches his butt and sandpaper cheeks and emits some weird honks as well,

half of them accompanied, as you might guess, by a rather unfortunate smell.



In ratty undershirt and torn, faded jeans, he slouches in front of the TV,

picks his nose, chugs a beer, and yearns for what will never be.



Then out of thinnest air this haughty master of nothing he surveys

points to the woman he swore to love and cherish and petulantly he brays,



"She wasn't supposed to change like that! It's really just not fair

that I have to see her in a tattered housecoat with curlers in her hair!"

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