A fairy tale convict, restrained in her tower cell,
scratching those long, thin lines, doleful exercise,
the shaky ones that mark each day confined.
She stole one of the butter knives,
the woman serving meals didn’t see.
It’s sharp now, from scratching all those lines.
Good for more than just spreading butter.
She could use it as a shiv if need be,
Or, she thinks, I could use it to trim my hair.
But no, not her beautiful golden locks,
those treasured tresses growing longer and longer.
You never know but one day it might be long enough to let down,
snag a handsome guy happening by,
have him grab hold and climb up inside to set her free.