A bad young girl
With hair white as milk
Got witches' shoes
Which shone bright red
And had been finely woven
From the oldest silk
With drops of blood to dye each thread

She put them on
When she began to dance
She heard the witches play their strings
Which have been finely tuned
To dying elephants
And to the shrieks of toppled kings

She pirouetted and she grand-jetéed
Et cetera, till she was out of breath
And when the last note had finally played
The bad young girl had danced herself to death

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