Spin

I loved the story of Rumpelstiltskin 

but now I don't. The part I liked involved

spinning straw to gold. When young, I caught 

tumbleweeds, sprayed them symphonic gold beyond

the likes of Martha Stewart over the holidays. 

But I'm not like that. I love my home, 

but am frightened of its imperfections. 

I used to think there were rules I could not know. 

My father told me my likes and dislikes 

did not make good conversation.

Why am I telling you this if I know that?

A little gnome filches the right to my goods

Because of a small skill, a quirk of fate.

Drat! Whose firstborn deserves that fake's fate?