I thought it rained on Sunday morn,
Imagine my surprise.
'Twas bitter tears that dulled my fears;
Your piety satisfies.

'Til then the Moirae'd kept me bound,
Apart from you, my pride.
Now though I'm dead, I'll restore the thread
Abhorrèd shears denied.

When spurious midwife cut our cord
I breathed my last, in truth.
But my soul remains, and with great pains
I'll restore my fairest youth.

For born to wealth you were, my El,
Not step-mum's rags and soot.
But husband-mine drank too much wine
Enhanced with wormwood root.

The time has come, my dearest girl.
Reclaim the life fate stole!
And don't stop there--we must prepare
To achieve a greater role.

Everything your heart desires
Will be within your reach.
Velvet dresses, golden tresses,
An armoire made of beech.

You'll meet the Prince in finery
A Queen could not disparage,
And then, how grand, he'll take your hand,
Proposing royal marriage.

Now listen well, my turtledove,
Let mother be your guide.
Be sure you've heard my every word
And carry me inside.

First, keep your pious heart devout,
Your reputation pure,
Let faith and trust provide your thrust,
Your voice keep clear and sure.

Next clear your head of stablehands,
Those thoughts you can't afford.
Make the switch and love the rich,
You'll find there's more reward.

Then learn to lie with silken ease,
Your battles must be fought!
Don't balk or fight, you know I'm right:
The meek inherit naught.

Dig up my casket, strip me bare,
And don my finest gown,
Then take the coins from off my lids
To pay your way to town.

And when the Prince's heart is ours
To crush beneath a heel,
Use the power within your bower
To consummate the deal.

From in your heart I'll guide your steps,
Ascending to the throne.
You must confess, this bright success
Cannot be gained alone.

Only then will we look back
Upon our sad beginning.
We'll name the thief who caused us grief
And punish her for sinning.

Now, time for vengeance is at hand!
We'll give her cause to worry.
And much too late, she'll learn that Fate
Is no match for the Fury.

Youngest Clotho will be first
We'll pierce her pretty throat.
Her spindle threat will dwindle yet.
Atropos, take note!

We'll slay step-sister Lachesis
Who stole your pretty sash.
Quite apropos for Atropos
Who condemned us to the ash.

But death is too good for the shrew
That took your mum and dad.
We'll burn the skeins that fed her veins
And give her the work you had.

Don't cry, my sweet, it's only just
To want our griefs repaid.
These faults addressed is all I request,
How can you feel betrayed?

Mother knows best; I think you'll find
In time you'll lose your fright.
You'll grow aware how much I care,
In time you'll see I'm right.