Cinderella, Millennial

As the clock strikes midnight

In the palace of ice

My glass shoes turn to cowhide,

My horses become mice,

My hair falls in dirty sheets

Over my blouse, which ironically

Is also made of dirty sheets

Which still smell better than me,

And I see my prince’s eyes widen

And he tells me I’m still beautiful

So I slap him and run away

‘Cause I don’t like being objectified

By one-percenters.