She lay in the ashes, cold and fair,

With light eyelashes and golden hair.

Cinders, sisters, spinsters, blisters,

Haunted the dreams of the working girl,

A tangle in a palace of curls. 

She slept beneath blankets, warm and hard,

Tight lips, gray curls, her beating heart scarred.

Winters, splinters, misters, whispers,

Plagued the vision of the duchess old,

A pastry once, beginning to mold.

Both woke in sorrow, sharp and brand new,

Bleary eyes opened, dull and bright blue.

Washing, watching, mopping, calling,

Harried the moments in the grand house,

A proud, worn cat and gentle, small mouse.