A mountainous range stood before the cold Little Red Riding Hood
Scoff not at my vile remarks elastic fiend
Crushed by the evil eyelash he laughs at the feeble beagle.
Stars filled her mind–it was if sea slugs were creaming her head.
All were in a circle of juggling horns of death–stiff and satiny,
Pools remain from the violet killer whale
How easily did the dream come apart, like Indian summer in one’s stomach
She tossed and turned, her delighted leg flapping uselessly,
So deal not with this once thy glorious surfer chick.
I’m going to try writing a series of real Little Red Riding Hood poems in hopes of generating something for this call for submissions.