A lonely day, with nothing but rain,
Yet my eyes are dry,
I reflect with some pride,
Until I see Olive Hornby.
She said I was fat and that I was ugly,
Yet she’d never looked in a mirror.
“Why should I?” she asked, as I told her this,
“Your glasses make me see myself clearer.”
Ooh, I’ll get her one day, yes I certainly will,
“Oh, just go to your stall
Or else I might kill
You.” How I made her rue those words.
My eyes become watery,
Yet it’s only the pain
Of being called fat! Ugly!
And miserable all day!
Yet miserable I am,
Until I am hit
By the idea to go to
The Prefect’s Bathroom and sit.
I flit down the pipe,
Though dangerous, I fear,
For the lake waits impatiently
For me to appear.
I put my eye to a faucet,
Only achieving a glimpse,
Before water from above
Washes me into its midst.
Oh Moaning Myrtle,
See what you have done,
I am now in the lake
Having even less fun.
The grindylows appear,
The nasty old fiends,
Screwing up their faces
Impersonating me!
Tears flow down my cheeks,
Yet I feel them not,
For the entire lake is full of my grief,
Continuing to rot.
I try to gather some grace
As I swim to the top,
But the merfolk would not let me,
Not even with a sop!
They taunt me and tease me,
Causing the water to rise,
And they unleash more grindylows
To spur more of my cries.
I kick to the surface,
Feigning deafness to their jeers,
But I cannot escape them –
Their words always ring in my ears.
“Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!”
“You’ve forgotten pimply,” they hiss in my ear.
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