The smoke cleared, crawling

from the wreckage, the horned vizier

of forked tongue and stingray tail

fame was the last man standing,

he said he could spin straw into gold–

now he was king and his vizier could do

the dirty work–and called himself Plain Mister

the man who spins straw into gold

(though all we ever see are graphs and reports

the polity colludes and pretends to believe)

the ghosts of myths were on his side, the diggers,

the gold miners, the greatest sportsman

of them all, the cool heeled and well-to-do,

even Kylie's Battlers voted him.
 
Such was the magic in this man

his filthy lucre dance seduced us all

as he mocked the law, re-made history

and tradition in his image, so many

pretended not to see the cruel shadow,

the horns and tail, or hear flames crackling

behind his words and we shared an evil

dose that hardened all our hearts

into a bribe, we retreated to our castles

but loved the way the wicked one

spun straw into gold, the churlish man

attracted our souls, our chariots were powerful

so he took the chance and went to war

there'd be death and rubble, sure,
 
There'd be more straw to weave into gold.

One day two men climbed out of a collapsed

mine and the joy of two people

helped by other people spread;

suddenly, not caring about the gold

or the straw, the people called Rumpelstiltskin's

name just once and cast him out, and the demon

let go, shredded the evidence, corruption

swept under a carpet, with expeditiousness,

the gold dust settling in quiet homes.

There's a bolt of lightning the smoke clears:

revealing those bad moments

that held our hearts all those years

are batted clear by a gracious succession.
 
Demons are complicated like Russian dolls,

mysteries wrapped in enigma, a rustling of leaves

and whispers, the animals disturbed by sin–

while Rumpelstiltskin was in Plain Mister's skin,

a crueller demon lived within: the traitor, Ugolino,

who enjoyed his punishment below so much, so

into politics the devil let Ugolino's spirit go.

In his final hours before the shade fell

Ugolino ate his children, or perhaps they ate him

the records are not clear but we know

he started a war that ruined his city

to prolong his influence, and profit, oh

but that's another story–now
 
a new magic is installed in the palace–

what devils possess this new Plain Mister

who speaks in dot points and glory be

asks of himself most difficult riddles,

answers with confidence–joy is his dance

a one-man pas de deux where two make one

sweetly on television, the Moon and Sun

anoint him chief of hope and future,

so raise the cudgels! (Socrates was a soldier)

soothe the baser passions (devilishly

clever rhetoric), remember the Renaissance,

and the old green world is dying,

take us on a journey, tell us when we're good,

make us feel young and free, wink before lying.