The butcher would be a troll,

but there was no bridge

for the girl to cross

in her white dress

sewn by the seamstress

married to the writer

in the grand, white house

built by the builder

married to the girl

who sleeps with the writer

but never tells her husband

because he'd die of a broken heart

and never build the bridge

that would give the troll a home

or get her and the writer over the river

and into the lovely, black city

where they can be heroine pin cushions

and he can write words

and she can look pretty

and at the end of the day

they can all shoot ****

with the seamstress's son

who has been in the city

for years and years and years

because

*he knew how to swim.