Whose house this is, I think I know.
Their village is the woods, and so
they will not mind my stepping in,
I’ll eat their porridge, then I’ll go.

Their furniture both sparse and spare,
I tried to sit in every chair.
One too hard and one too soft,
one broke beneath my derriere.

I tasted porridge, hot and cold,
and one just right. I drained the bowl.
Then up the stairs to take a nap.
I’m as ill-mannered as I am bold.

I fell asleep, but woke to stares
of three sizes of disgruntled bears,
I’ve miles to run ’til I escape
three hungry beasts with broken chairs.

Day 12 of National Poetry Writing Month. I’m off-prompt today. I woke up thinking of Robert Frost for some reason, so I went with it. 

Happy Easter! Be safe!