Princess Coldheart closed her eyes and waited for the kiss to snap her chain between her lips. They waited proud; they waited willing...filed in, failed, and so she killed them.

Sitting on her cutglass throne for forty years, without a phone, without a single word. 100 thousand would-be suitors, dead because they couldn't move her.

In the courtyard flowers bloomed; they draped themselves 'round tombs and rows of crosses.... Pretty flowers bloomed; they draped themselves 'round tombs and rows of crosses.

Some were daring...tried the tricks they'd learned in France. Some would touch her hand. Money signs etched in their eyes. She sensed it; one-by-one they died.

Others chanted poems...even showered her with strange expensive gifts. She wouldn't read; she owned the best. She laid their flattery to rest.

In the courtyard flowers bloomed; they draped themselves 'round tombs and rows of crosses.... Pretty flowers bloomed; they draped themselves 'round tombs and rows of crosses.

Then, one October night, the humble village fool caught sight of Coldheart, and he fell. He smashed a rock against her throne. He snatched her hand and took her home.

Happily they lived forever after. He wears her chain upon his chest. She even lets him kiss her breast.

In the courtyard flowers bloom; they drape themselves 'round tombs and rows of crosses.... In their garden flowers bloom; they pick them, decorate their room. It's touching.

It's touching, so touching. It's touching, so touching.