Spindle, spindle, spindle, keep on spinning.
The outside is sinning.
The silk is thining.
Why are you grinning?
You should be grieving!
You say no matter, the day shall come no matter!
Oh Vannatter!
How they bespattler you with their chatter.
So scatter, scatter, scatter, those grim hands yours.
Those chores, of yours, hurt you deeply.
And so creepily, you spin your story,
of midnight lace.
Your midnight kiss, of a grim story.
The pouring from your rist, makes you liss.
So, grin, grin, grin, at your grim ending.
You say this is a beginning that seems like an ending.
So without a trace, I'll begin sending,
your midnight lace.