God made the little princess with her nice and shiny shoes
in the tall and staggered towers on the islands of the blues,
where the little, pretty people ranted on about the news,
no one’s laughing, no one’s crying, no one’s paid their missing dues,
and the earth, it was a-rumblin’ to the sound of a guitar,
while the little, pretty princess was a-drinkin’ in the bar,
and all the people, all the people, who had scattered from afar,
came a-runnin’ to the princess who had dreamt she was a star,
but she woke up to the mornin sun, a painful sight to see,
she woke up to an empty town, as pretty people flee,
she woke, a pretty princess, not so pretty as can be, and
sat and thought and thunk, she did, “No one does loveth me,”
though busy was her woe and gloom, the time, it passed on by,
and the little, pretty princess who had gone and learnt a lie,
that God would make a big mistake, a-one as big as she,
her little, pretty shiny shoes had gone and set her free.
