Fate sat at her loom one evening,
Weaving strands of coloured thread.
Shippiness, her sister scheming,
Placed another pair in bed.
Fate looked at her sister dearest,
As she planned another match.
"Sister, dear, didst not thou hearest?
This plan thou makest will not hatch."

Shippiness arose, and pouting,
looked her sister in the eye.
"Fate, to my plans thou art forever doubting!
Why must thou always make my lovers die?"
Fate glanced away, her blue eyes dim,
and said to her sister,
"Thou matchest her...and him?!"
She plucked a strand whose end did wither,
and softly, she let out a sigh.

"Good sister, see this fibre shredded?
And dost thou see this one of brown?"
Shippiness nodded, Fate's answer dreaded,
The candles glittered from her crown.
"My dear, this thread with strands unfurling,
will always be destined for undue death.
If, these two, thou begst me to be matching,
Thou shalt simply waste thy breath."

"Oh, but Fate," Shippiness pleaded,
"Surely grant me this one wish!
These two, I deplore thee, make beloved,
I beg thee, please, to act on this."
Fate's heart did soften from her sister's pleading,
And together wove the strands with gold.
"Thou hast bothered me enough this evening,
And now I ask thee please, to go."

Shippiness, triumphant and beaming,
Fondly took her sister's hand.
Her new lovers lay together, dreaming,
Said Shippiness,
"I knew thou wouldst understand."