Cut [he]r silly little tongue out and sew up [he]r chattering lips. That’ll stop the scatterbrained little gossip letting secrets slip.
Tell [he]r [s]he’s sick, convince [he]r s[he]’s mad. And when you’ve got [he]r all gaslighted up, stuff [he]r full of shut up drugs. That’ll do the trick.
Play your cards right and get [he]r to swallow the lies. And [s]he’ll be a well behaved placid little zombie in no time flat. S[he]’ll be your very own properly silent, well behaved good little girl.
Convince [h]er s[he]’s unwell and s[he]’ll even do the job [her]self. Get [he]r to believe the drugs will make the agony go away and [s]he’ll gobble them down gratefully.
Trust me. I’m a professional and what I know is that I know best. Tell [he]r s[he]’s got bipolar or an anxiety disorder or some nonsense.
Dangle the convincing carrot of competence and cure and [s]he’ll do all the rest. Poison [he]r thoughts with pathological lies and s[he]’ll wield the rod of oppression [he]rs[elf].
But the trick is to never ever let the [prince]ss wake up from [he]r dreamy dreams ever again.