At the foot of the bed
There hangs a mirror
The space on the wall that yet
was clear:
The rest of the room
Is filled with frames
So over her bed, the mirror,
it hangs.
Oh, sweet little Jane
She didn’t know
That mirrors hung above re-flect
be-low,
And for all the time
She stared awake
The Thing in the Mirror her stare
would take
And after a month
Poor Jane would find
To mirror for herself no plea-
sant time.
These days if you catch
A glimpse of Jane
Look out for her in the win-
dow pane,
But try not to make
The one in flesh
Aware that you might sus-pect
the-rest.