I guess you think you know this story.
You don't. The real one's much more gory.
The phoney one, the one you know,
You always read about it:
the plumber with the twelve children
who wins the Irish Sweepstakes.
From toilets to riches.
If my name was Cinderella
You could be the prince
I could wear my sparkling prom dress
We could fall in love the moment our eyes meet
Cinderella in the street
In a ragged gown,
Sloven slippers on her feet,
Shames our tidy town;
In Search Of Cinderella
From dusk to dawn,
From town to town,
Without a single clue,
I seek the tender, slender foot
Cinderella was a nice gal
Always did what she was told
Put others before herself
Cinderella had lots of hopes and dreams
Her imaginary playmate was a grown-up
In sea-coal satin. The flame-blue glances,
The wings gauzy as the membrane that the ashes
Draw over an old ember --as the mother
It’s Midnight my love
Its time for me to disappear
And leave behind my
Cinderella, why do you wish to be like anyone else?
Your fine by yourself.
People notice you because your different