My

mo-

ther

was

ob-

sessed

by

e-

vil

jea-

lou-

sy,

she

di-

dn't

want

no-

bo-

dy

to

ev-

en

look

at

Mo-

lly.

She

kept

me

locked

up

in

this

a-

ttic

'till

I

died.

O-

nly

4

years

old,

my

sto-

ry

left

un-

told.

O-

o-

oh

Mo-

lly

O-

o-

oh

Mo-

lly

Mo-

ther

was

struck

by

this

in-

fa-

lli-

ble

i-

dea

if

she

could

paint

my

por-

trait

I

would

re-

main

i-

mmor-

tal.

And

I

could

hang

down-

stairs

a-

bove

the

fi-

re-

place.

A

li-

ttle

girl

in

lace,

not

a

sin-

gle

trace

of

crime.

trace

of

crime.

Each

day

and

night

she

worked

and

au-

tumn

turned

to

spring,

for

e-

very

stroke

she

pain-

ted

a

li-

ttle

life

was

end-

ed.

At

last

I

felt

so

weak

I

could

not

e-

ven

speak

but

in

that

fa-

tal

por-

trait

my

spi-

rit

came

to

life

a-

ga-

a-

a-

a-

ain.

O-

o-

oh

Mo-

lly

That

night

I

made

the

por-

trait

speak

in

e-

vil

tongue:

You're

go-

nna

go

be-

yond

too,

may

pain

and

death

be-

stow

you!

She

grabbed

a

book

and

spoke

a-

loud

an

an-

cient

rhyme

while

she

burned

the

por-

trait

in

the

can-

dle

of

fa-

a-

a-

a-

ate.

O-

o-

oh

Mo-

lly

I

go-

tta

see

Ma