Them Phoenixs Don't Come Back!

  They say she was a looker and they said often. She was a fine lass, indeed! That girl would sit endless staring at a reflection of 'erself, combing 'er fingers through that red hair. All the lads fell into her spell, they did. Oh, what a wife would make she! They put roses at her feet hoping she'd take her eyes off that reflection and into theirs!

That redhead made the ladies spitful like witches! You could have swore that some of 'hem wives were ready with rolling pin in hand! They fill with such scorn looking at 'er but she n'ver looks at them!

A fickle her be she indeed! Girl wouldn't budge an ants-length for anyone -- not e'ven her mama! They say girls like 'er burn up into flames. Their skin peels, and then their hair joins in one with the wind. Their muscles give in and flop like a fisherman's catch to the floor. 'Fore you know it their just bones n' eyes but their bones shrivel like they been through fire and turn dark like coal! Just a frail body of ash and eyes!

  Lucky for them, they have those eyes so they can admire 'hemselves in the mirror world one last time. They see themselves burnt away and scream the last scream e'ver heard from them.

  That redhead disappeared one day and all those men found were ashes, a set of fine eyes and a broken mirror. Some phoenixes just n'ver rise.