The Girl With The White Stockings
The snow, the snow, it fell so slow,
Upon the hills and valleys low.
It dimmed the lights and hid their glow,
And lit upon a lonesome doe.
A gloomy tree she sat below
And waited for the grass to grow.
For while it snowed she filled with woe
That she must search to and fro
To find a home to set her toe.
The night was black as soot or crow.
She took a stroll upon a knoll
And there she came upon a foal.
A pretty foal the colour of coal,
A shadow full against the whole
White range of snow across the knoll.
The snow did seem to take its toll
Upon the doe and little foal.
The foal cried out with all his soul:
“Help me, dear one, from the hole!
I feel as low as a miserable mole.”
She pulled him out in but three tries,
But hark and lo, as they did rise,
The foal ripped off his dark disguise,
And much to our dear doe’s surprise,
A ghastly girl with hollow eyes
Did stand before her with no guise
Of innocence, purity or mind purely wise.
With height so grand she touched the skies,
Her soul was filled with demon ties.
She brought the doe a quick demise.
This devil girl, with heart so sore
And evil blackness at her core,
Walked across the snow-covered floor,
Past flocks of birds and the occasional boar,
Through fields of trees to the ocean shore.
The waves did part. She paused at the door.
And before the waves began to pour
Onto that gate into Hell and War,
She wickedly smiled at her feet once more,
At drops of red on white stockings pure.
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