beyond the furthest mountain
but aft of the nearest star
there lives a young fair maiden
oblivious to the world so far

she sits and combs her hair each night
untangling each knot with care
but little does she think with fright
of the bombs that blow and scare

so there she sits and sings her song
a merry little tune
swaying a little here and there
lit only by the moon

but when she looks out her window
not much does she see
only piles of coal black ash and rust
a present from her family

and so she sits and hums along
waiting for the chance
to leave her red wooden chair
which she falls into nightly to rest