Mary had a little lamb. Little lamb. Little lamb. That's all she ever had.
Mary wasn't the type to meet new people. Her family lived in a very quiet and isolated area. they were among mountains, valleys and rivers. Mary didn't attend school for her parents didn't let her. She was too fragile, they said. She can't even lift a finger. Not a person came by to show her how. In fact, she never met anyone else. One day, her father told her that her sheep went wondering off. She hurried out with her cloak woven by her mother and boots made by her father. She went home empty handed. After that her father and mother died. They died peacefully in Mary's mind. They died in her hands. By her hands. She chooses to say they died rather than a murder. And who's there to know. Asides from her sheep who finally found its way back to her, no one saw the act. The little lady who everyone thought was harmless wasn't that weak after all. She steals a final glance to the people she used to love the most before covering their bodies in the white cloth she held close to her before and left with the brown colored shoes as that's the only thing that'll keep her warm now.
Mary had a little lamb. It's wool was white as snow. Now it's red, as you know.