Dance of Death

Mary visited the shoemaker's on a winter morning,
And passed a black funeral mourning.
She went straight down,
Without looking around,
And noticed the old man frowning.

She left Betty to her curds and whey,
Humming to herself she had nothing to say.
Making her way,
On this winter's gray,
A little bit too boring.

The door bell jingles,
Her feet feels a tingle,
Peripheral catches a twinkle.
Shoemaker John says, "Not for sale, this metal shoe."
But Mary tosses her hair and said, "Boo hoo!"

Mary eyes the heavy pair,
And loved it so much, part it she didn't dare.
She snatched them from his hands,
Took off her pants,
Then left without a glance.

Mary went to put on the shoes,
And looked at the sun set from blue.
The iron began to melt and fuse,
Burning her skin to near-high cruel,
The Devil has come to collect his due.

She skipped and danced to shake it loose,
The red-hot iron grip that was fool-proof.
Leaping into dusk,
Shriveled to dust,
The Dance of Death, alas.