tHE aXE wHICH sWIFTLY bREAKS

A poem I imagined a twisted mother would sing-song to her naughty daughter by the bedside.

As sirens swirl
Hot match curls
Her dolls will melt like wax

The firemen fought
Till their hoses caught
Stuck around the chimneystack

Mary pouts
She won’t make it out
Not with that stubborn frown

She will burn
If she never learns
Who gave her that pretty crown

Red hats fit
On men that rip
The axe which swiftly breaks

Below the smoke
All crawl and choke
Like blacken’d slump’n snakes

Mary whines
Won’t make it in time
Not when she’s contrary

She will find
We’ll do just fine
Without a surly girl called Mary

The bed will rock
And cupboards quake
Knives fall in razor’d tatters

And she’ll be pinned
Beside her flippant grin
When they forget to raise the latter

Mary’s short
Mary’s mean
No one dares to lift a hand

The men would rather
Take her ashes to scatter
Across the sycamore sand

Mary pouts
She won’t make it out
Not with that stubborn frown

She will burn
If she never learns
Who gave her that pretty crown

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