A Millers Daughter

Spinning wheels crumbling

Baskets of gold go tumbling

The Millers Daughter goes back to rags

Not even a glimmering strain

 No chainlinks of hope remain

Cast out she goes among the hags

Rumplestiltskin is a liar

She is marched to a pyre

Poor Millers Daughter, taking the blame

Who could blame her hoping

To be more than blindly groping

Desiring to come out above her Fated lot

And now it seems Fate betrayed her

Rumplestiltskin was no savior

Cackling bystander mock what she is not

Broken lady, enslaved in grief

May your painful fate be brief

May there be mourning when you are found

Abandon hope Millers Daughter

Your kind has litte hope of Honor

A Sinners grave the final empty mocking ground

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