The little things in life are what give her hope,
She looks around for something to hold on to and a rope
is the only thing dangling from the ceiling,
There is no beginning nor an end to this piece of twine dangling from above
as the paints peeling,

She is lying there waiting for a moment of pure energy,
To emerge from her inner being,
She of all the people the prince picks to be his,
Is this a dream or just some kind of quiz,

The thread wrapped around finger,
Screaming don't forget not to linger,
In the midst of all that wasn't reality,
For soon she'd believe it was the truth with picture perfect quality,

So please dear sir blow away the grains,
This princess in no princess in her own brain,
Your sleeping powder is a fatal one,
You make people hope for what they will never be truly shown,

This illusion you put on for eight hours at a time,
Is one of the cruelest of the world and could make you drop a dime,
Our fantasies are all lead right back to you,
Because you dear sir combine reality with fantasy like some kind of glue.