A bad young girl With hair white as milk Got witches' shoes Which shone bright red And had been finely woven From the oldest silk With drops of blood to dye each thread She put them on When she began to dance She heard the witches play their strings Which have been finely tuned To dying elephants And to the shrieks of toppled kings She pirouetted and she grand-jetéed Et cetera, till she was out of breath And when the last note had finally played The bad young girl had danced herself to death