"Oh, how I would give something up if only I could whittle," the lovely princess spoke aloud.
"Perhaps my first born child," thought her.
A (male) troll appeared out of a gray poof of smoke.
"I will let you whittle with the best of them if you give me your first born," he said.
Without thought she replied, "Okay."
Three years later she had a baby.
She called him Peter.
He was named after Peter from the music group Peter, Paul and Mary.
Poof of smoke.
A troll where there hadn't been a troll before.
She remembered the pact.
She pushed the stop button on her Walkman and removed her headphones.
She said, "Isn't there something I can do to make null our contractual obligation?"
(sound of troll scratching head)
"Guess my name and you'll be rid of me," said the troll.
She paused and thought for a second.
"Ed," said the princess.
"Damn!" thought the troll as he disappeared.

There were bears living in hollowed out trees.
This is not normal.
These mammals also wore clothes and ate oatmeal.
Typically, this is not common bear behavior.
One day in August they experienced some difficulty.
Hot oatmeal, cold oatmeal, and oatmeal with raisins.
The troll appeared.
(No poof of smoke this time).
"I will help make your oatmeal suitable for eating," he said in his gravelly voice.
His comment went unanswered.
The bears weren't there.
They were upstairs sleeping in their beds (one was a trundle).
They had simply switched their bowls.
That fixed the error.
"Curses!" thought the troll.

The troll walked along the beach.
He occasionally picked up seashells.
"Hi Sally," he said as he saw his friend in the distance.
She sold things by the shore.
"Hello," she returned.
He walked to her.
She looked at him, taking in his green face and dirty fingernails.
"You look glum."
"I am glum."
"Well, hey, there's a fisherman on the pier is down on his luck --
His wife wants things he can't afford and it makes him sad," she said.
"Perhaps," she continued, "you could grant him a wish and then steal his children."
He ran towards the pier.
He'd forgotten to say, "Thanks," and "Goodbye."
Trolls sometimes don't have best of manners.
He saw a fisherman speaking to something in the water.
"I will grant you a wish -- for a price," interrupted the troll.
The fisherman looked up.
"I'm sorry," he said, "this fish is helping me."
"Hey Ed! How's things?" said the fish.
"Drat!" yelled the troll.

The troll called his agent.
His agent's name was Vic.
Vic often wore ties that were flamboyant and/or yellow.
"Troll! Buddy!"
"Can it Vic," replied the troll, "I need work."
"Well let's see what we have here."
He was put on hold.
Vic cleared his throat.
"We've got 'The Enchanted Cave of Cesh Corran'. It's a three child deal."
"I've never heard of it," said the troll, "and what's a Cesh Corran?"
"It's Irish."
The troll screamed, "Gadzooks!"
(He was beginning to run out of expressions)
Vic hung up.

The troll was at home.
He was lying on the couch watching CNN.
The couch was particularly filled with mildew today.
He thought to himself, "It's probably because I live under a bridge."
Suddenly, footsteps above.
The troll hopped up, threw his robe on, and ran upstairs.
Three goats, each different size.
The troll spoke: "Who's that trotting over my bridge."
"Eu sou pesaroso mas eu não falo o inglês," said the smallest of the goats.
"Eu sou pesaroso mas eu não falo o inglês," the talking goat said once more.
"What is that? Spanish?"
"Portuguese," said the medium sized goat.
The large goat said, "Nós estamos entrando na cidade atender ao festival anual de Portuguese."
Translation: We are going into town to attend the annual Portuguese Festival."
"Crap!" thought the troll.
He went downstairs and lay upon the couch to watch more CNN.
He wondered if Wolf Blitzer had been working out.

About the author:

Steve Delahoyde is a writer working in the oft-confusing field of Bio-Medicine. He lives in Phoenix, Arizona and will probably never have a book of poetry published under his pseudonym, Reginald McMcinson.