He was a banded offer:
want him, get her too.
She grizzled for her sainted mother.

Three’s a crowd. God knows I tried.
He didn’t want the bother.

I took a course in parenting. She cried.

Drove me quite demented,
with her snow white, black and red.
I heard the rumours: squatting in
a house with seven men.
He blamed me, slept in the spare bed.

Even the mirror lied. The fairest! She!
You bet I wished her ill.

The rest you know about: the fatal fruit,
the glass box on the hill.