Rotten to the Core

by jmj

Rating: mature
Tags: Tragedy, Big Macintosh, Applejack, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Granny Smith, Sad, Apple Bloom, Braeburn
Length: 1454

A dark poem describing the various members of the insidious Apple Family.

A dark poem describing the various members of the insidious Apple Family.

Published 2014-07-24 23:00:02 UTC
Last updated 2014-07-24 23:00:02 UTC

Rotten

This is the reckoning of a family of Apples,
A more hypocritical lot you won’t find in a chapel.
They lie and the cheat and they aren’t quite good.
Contemptible, dirty, a selfish old brood.
They keep to each other, their vices, their kinks,
Like drug abuse, sex, or too many drinks.
Far passed redemption, this family is sin.
So sit back in your seat, it’s about to begin.

Apple Bloom lies face-down in the gutter,
From within her belly her intestines do sputter.
Her coat, I fear, has turned a dull green,
Probably from days without being seen.
Whoever did it, has taken her hair,
But for what purpose, speak, I not dare.
Her family won’t mind, because of their greed.
She’s just one less mouth they have to feed.

Aunt Goldie has gathered all of her cats.
They feast on her body because she has passed.
She was old, deranged, and exceedingly frail
And remarkably,to them, she tastes much like quail.
The reason, I guess, might be a stroke,
Or the wrong pony to which she could have misspoke.
Stroke or stroke, the last from a cane,
To her, no difference, because she is slain.

Apple Strudel, a chef, had a queer taste,
Ice cream or pie, with flesh it was laced.
What kind? No matter, he didn’t care.
From whence it came, it mattered not where.
The rarer the better, he used to state,
Until a pink slab arrived on his plate.
Later that night his tummy, it squirms!
And he died the next morning of parasitical worms.

Babs was picked on because she was large,
They said she was roughly the size of a barge.
She left, for a while, to spend time with a bumpkin,
But returned just as bloated and fat as a pumpkin.
Her new resolve, however, began to grow thin,
When bullies pointed out her new double chin.
From her roof, one day, she looked down to the street.
She leapt, she squawled, and met the concrete.

Braeburn fell solemnly into depression,
After a train, on him, made an impression.
You see, he knew, he should refrain,
From falling asleep on the track of a train.
Some say it was caused by a rough bout with liquor
Caused by his mare-friend with which he did bicker.
Regardless of why, he now feels the dregs,
Because he has lost all four of his legs.

And, Apple or not, it’s hard to ignore,
That pink party pony who is never a bore.
She’s even more wired, though she’s confined,
By doctors who claim that she’s out of her mind.
Drugs have all failed to calm the poor dear,
And options are short, they collectively fear,
The only one left to cure the insane,
Is to pop her head open and remove some of her brain.

Applejack impatiently waits for the end,
Of the everlong week so time she may spend,
In a town, far away, where her name is not known,
To quench the lust which she can’t kill alone.
Dressed all in leather, which is tightly bound,
She wriggles her rump for strangers to pound,
And loses herself in the acts which deprave,
And conducts herself as a harlot, a slut, and a slave.

Granny Smith sits alone in her room,
Patiently waiting the day of her doom.
Arthritis has taken most of her joints,
And she aches and she aches up to the point,
Where perhaps taking a mouthful of pills,
Might relieve her of most of her ills.
But she can’t do it, to her chagrin,
They were taken, and sold, for money again.

Apple Rum Raisin pimped out her sister,
For money or items, to any old mister.
Sometimes she watched, filled with sick lust,
And told the poor thing, “We all do as we must.”
But the tables were turned, her sister incensed,
Taking control, ensuring justice dispensed.
Now Rum Raisin lives in a box, a pleasurable gimp,
Her sister the master, the owner, the pimp.

Apple Cream Cheese was a talented thief,
Of wallets, from owners, he gave quick relief.
Sometimes he burgled, stole all their jewels,
But if he was seen he could be quite cruel.
He stabbed one poor stallion, making the news.
Unfortunately, that time, he left a few clues.
He was soon gathered, tried without respect,
And shortly after, head separated from neck.

A young and spry Apple was Apple Tart,
Full of spice and life, the young upstart.
At least until, met she, a brutish old rake,
Whose innocence, youth, and life he did take.
When finished,he left her lying alone in copse,
And covered with hundreds of tiny red drops.
A wormhaunt for maggots, a feast for the bugs,
That live in the unmarked grave he had dug.

Auntie Orange, an Apple by marriage,
Told all her friends she’d had a miscarriage.
She neglected to ever mention she was the wife,
Of an Apple who, daily, threatened her life.
What went on at home, they could not know,
And she wept whenever her belly would grow.
Her health was always seen as cursed,
Because there were four more after the first.

Apple Fritter, the outcast, hated her life,
The toil and the trouble of agricultural strife.
She fled to Manehattan and sought a new game,
Had her cutie-mark altered, and took a new name.
For a while she knew joy, happiness, mirth,
Until a foal came, to whom, she had gave birth.
The more that she looked, the more it did bother,
That it, her foal, looked just like her father.

Apple Brown Betty was mist-minded and hazy,
And, the Apples, agreed as one she was lazy.
One day she swallowed a mountain of cake,
A barrel of cider, and other things baked.
Her heart did a-flutter, a-sputter, and wheeze,
A sure sign of a dreaded cardiac disease.
Despite the warnings, her intake increased,
At least, that is, til it made her deceased.

Apple Dumpling, not at all like his name,
Was far from feeble, flounding, or lame.
A colt of great power, rivaling Big Mac,
But discouraged by what he did in the sack.
He loved other colts, in secret, of course,
And knowing his family, their prejudice, recourse,
Used the fibres which gave him great strength,
And hung himself with a rope of some length.

What can be said about poor Candied Apple?
With addiction to drugs the poor mare did grapple.
A needle, a poke, a rush through her veins,
Ended the horror of daily life pains.
Attrition’s the word that aptly describes,
Her body from substance she daily imbibes.
Once, full-figured and attractively thick,
Now a skeleton, a reed, a dried up old stick.

Red Delicious, ironically named, took great sport,
In showing his bravery, his wit, and retort.
To him, there was no equal, or so he claimed,
And traveled to best a beast that was famed.
He entered its lair, proudly showing his muscle,
and from deep in the cave came quite a tussle.
He never came out, and as the beast intones,
He tasted so flavorful, even his bones.

Not all of the Apples have died or been killed,
You see Big Macintosh is overly thrilled.
Remaining quite calm, he snuck up behind,
And checking the girth of a stout bit of twine,
Wrang Apple Bloom’s neck until the gurgling ceased,
Then took her thick mane, for together he pieced,
A secret ensemble made with great care,
So he could finally act, and look, like a mare.

Apple Ale was a drunk, simple and pure.
He had a pretty young wife, of nature, demure.
While intoxicated, so often, he staggered and fell,
But, most of the time, put her through hell.
She nursed bruises, chipped teeth, abrasions, and cuts,
And nightly endured his wild, violent ruts.
Until she became tired, and with great elation,
Left him one night, after vengeful castration.

Sour Apple had bones to pick with all other races,
On pegasi, unicorns, his hatred displaces.
But zebras, above all others he hated.
Just seeing one caused his breath to be bated.
Until one day he saw a somewhat large troop,
Of the rhyming, lyrical, black and white group.
He headed right over. He cursed and he spat,
And was left in a heap, all trampled and flat.

And thus, at the moment, the story has ended,
At least for now, the Family’s extended!
To some, there is pity (Like Babs or poor Bloom)
But for most, they deserve their fate or their gloom.
So onward, good reader, to find the glee,
That happier stories will bring to thee.
But remember, happy stories are all a chore,
Because these Apples are rotten, rotten to the core!