The poets have all told my story wrong
thought there was a well, and me out all alone.
The well was deep and so the rope was long.
I had a golden ball, a pretty song;
nothing’s so lovely as what is one’s own.
The poets have all told my story wrong.
I tossed my ball, I tossed it far and strong
with consequences that would make me moan.
The well was deep and so the rope was long.
Then, from the well, climbing rung by rung,
a toad retrieved my ball like a dog’s bone.
The poets have all told my story wrong,
he said, I am no prince. But I was wondering:
Is the moon the great bucket, or is the sun?
The well was deep and so the rope was long.
I kissed him. Now, two toads, we hang
here on the dry land, as we call wet stone.
The poets have all told our story wrong:
our well is deep and so our rope is long.
—Dawn Corrigan, “The Princess”
Photography Credit Sébastien Chou via Booooooom
