Dust and rags and broomsticks,

She would wash and scrub and clean,

Under the wrath of two step sisters,

Who found joy in being mean,

And a plump fairy godmother,

With a crack upon her wand,

Dooming every spell she ever cast,

To go completely wrong,

A ball gown turned to tatters,

Two glass slippers turned to boots,

Out of place among the dresses,

And the gold embroidered suits,

She ran as time struck midnight,

Worried what else could go wrong,

Didn’t lose a single thing,

Her boots stayed firmly on,

So she ran and ran still further,

Until the sunlight filled the sky,

Not even pausing briefly,

To wave that horrid life goodbye,

She broke free from their judgment,

And hasn’t cared to look back since,

She doesn’t need their greedy longing,

And she doesn’t need a prince.