Red shoes, make her dance
Make her dance and let her sing.
Merrily she takes her chance
Dancing to the bells that ring.
Vanity becomes her while the church bells condemn,
Frolicking on road, in river, past fen.
The faster she dances, the wilder she sings,
Through forest and countryside, her heels grow sore with wings.
‘Please Mister woodcutter, please would you help?
I can’t seem to find my way and I’ve lost my sense of self.’
He cuts her feet right off, the shoes run away
Leaving her distressed, with nothing more to say.
Rags to riches and back to rags again,
Karen is back in the world of men.
Poor little wren.
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