Cruella De Void
“Cruella De Vil, Cruella De Vil, if she doesn’t scare you,no evil thing will!To see her is to take a sudden chillCruella, Cruella…”Window curtains drape acrossmy Persian Sarouk rug in the bedroom.The bear head above my bed frame is my protector of the night.My bedtime routine includes my henchmen washing my face to clear out my pores,a personal percussionist to help chime my way to sleep,and a maid to smooth out my comforter that took 20 rabbits to sew.I am the worst,but I am also the best.My walk is as fierce as if I split open the Red Sea with satin leather heels.Every time I trot on London streets,you tell your children to not end up like me.I am a jailbreaker ahead of my time.I strut in the path of suburban sidewalksthat are tired of the housewife’s cackles in the morning.A pair of plyers spread your last logical reasoning for looking.I know you cook by the stove,your only subconscious wish is to be me.You cook the meatloaf for the 3rd time this week.You think, if only if you were as free.You are the neighborhood’s trophy of hushed whispersduring your summer porch get-togethers;I am every one of your guests’ secret daydreams on lonely Sunday afternoons.God only gives us wingswhen we are ambitious enough to use them.Each day is a flight worth taking.The wind between the feathers I wearbrushes off any ounce of care.I lie in bed by myself, emitting independence toward the sky.Each night I feel a calming breeze,knowing the only love I needis the comfort of rabbit fur beside me.How content I am in the basket of luxury.But certain nights are different.I smoke long Parliaments in bed, hoping the hours pass by quickly.The memories are movie screens that flash on the ceiling at 3:00 a.m.The letters, Winston Churchill, the Suez Canal.His sacrifice for them meant blood draining down the sand;the war never blamed the Italians enough.
