My mind is in a quandry and I don’t know what to do
about the most unfortunate loss of my new shoe.
I’ve retraced my footsteps and looked with hawk-like eye
and yet not any trace of it was I able to spy.
I find no consolation in the fact I still have one,
for dancing in a single shoe cannot be any fun.
The majority of those I know say to just forget it,
but they have not a notion of the way I came to get it.
I peep down through the curtains when I hear the doorbell ring,
and from my turret window, see the one who will be king
and in his hand he holds the shoe that is a perfect pairing
to the shoe that on one foot I happen to be wearing.
As I limp down the stairway, I hear my sister strain
to stuff her foot into the shoe, in spite of all her pain.
Then my other stepsister tries to do the same.
She offers to cut off her toes, but his majesty’s not game.
“Is there another sister?” he asks as I appear.
My stepmother says no but I step forward and say, “Here,
I have the other slipper,” and so the story goes
on with a happy ending, as everybody knows.