Perhaps happily ever-after will come,
After I breathe my last,
Because I surely don't have it now,
Nor have I in the past.
Perhaps they are just words made up,
A fallacy so it seems,
From the pens of those who still believe,
In unobtainable dreams.
Or perhaps it is merely a silly idea,
That took quite a hold,
In the hearts of so many little girls,
A million copies sold.
And I don't think I'll ever find it,
No matter how hard I look,
Except of course on lonely nights,
When I open up a book.