She was the type of person to never read the endings of stories,
Leaving perpetual suspense and an array of untied strings
Or rather she would read only the end and neglect the beginning
This was mostly for impatience.
This was Rose Red,
now she's dead
She tripped down into that well
Oh woe, suspensed in perpetual hell
We tried to forget,
With a quiet funeral.
She keeps climbing out at night
Stiff and miserable
Rose Red, Rose Red,
What to do with you now that youre dead?
Velvet waters, stinging stillness
This is your bed
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