She sits on twenty third street.

She sits on twenty third street with the cats and the mice,

her eyes darting wildly, her hair crawling with lice.

She sits on twenty third street, in her clothes so old and worn,

her name she can't remember, or the year she was born.

She sits on twenty third street swapping tales for loaves of bread,

speaking of horror and of fear, of love and of dread.

She sits on twenty third street watching and waiting,

oblivious to everyone's pitiless hating.

She sits on twenty third street on her little folding chair

sinking deeper and deeper into her despair.

She sits on twenty third street with her cackling mad laughter

waiting for her prince, for her happily ever after.