The Disease of the What-Not and Ghosts

Cinderella thought one day,
she'd maybe go for a ride;
she'd been with the prince for years now,
blushing like a brand new bride.

Pale, she trembled in the sun,
voices screaming in her head.
They murmured in her pinkish ears,
“You will soon be dead.”

She was diseased and she was sick
and she was much too young to die.
She was diseased and she was sick
and she had sat down and begun to cry.

The ghosts, she'd dubbed them,
followed her to her grave,
stalkers and fibbers and
Hell-bent monsters never saved.

Cinderella, dressed in yell'a,
went upstairs to kiss a fella,
made a mistake, kissed a snake,
how many doctors did it take?

She was diseased and she was sick
and she was much too young to die.
She was diseased and she was sick
and she was much too young to die!

Made a mistake, kissed a snake,
how many doctors did it take?