The day will come when research clinics,
cosmetic shops, laboratories,
sewers and landfill sites will open
and give up those who no one sees.
They’ll rise and march against the living:
unborn, undead and unforgiving!

A host of billions, all the children
who never saw the light of day
will be emerging from the refuse
around the world, come out to play
and wreak their vengeance on the living:
unborn, undead and unforgiving!

Armed with the instruments that killed them,
all those unwanted will condemn
their foe and do unto their mothers
what once their mothers did to them,
an army dreaded by the living:
unborn, undead and unforgiving!

The disciples met in Joseph’s
house who had the table laid
to commemorate the selfless
sacrifice their Saviour made.

Mary stormed into the meeting
and dispersed her brethren’s gloom:
‘He has risen! He has risen!
There’s no body in the tomb!’

‘That’s great news’, said Joseph, smiling.
‘Sure, the Lord is homeward bound’,
and he sliced the meat for supper,
and he passed the chalice round.

Everyone was in good spirits,
until John looked at his fork
as he chewed and asked politely:
‘Surely you’re not serving pork?’

Simon Peter took the chalice,
drank and smashed it with a thud,
turned around and barked at Joseph:
‘That’s not wine, Joe! This is blood!’

‘Do you not remember, brethren,
what our Saviour said before?
Eat my flesh and drink my blood, and
you shall live for evermore!

‘He has given us his dogma,
we’re supposed to live by it!
Hold on, I’ll just put another
juicy femur on the spit...’

They say their God came down to Earth,
became a man and gave them
eternal life the day he died
upon the cross to save them.
How do you think they treat the man
who died for them and one day
will bring them to his paradise?
They eat him on a Sunday.

He taught his humble fellowmen
the easy-to-infer fact
that not a person in this world
except himself is perfect.
They are forgiven once a week
and sin again on Monday;
as for the man who saved their souls,
they eat him on a Sunday.

Their ancestors were primitive,
and human sacrifices
were fried or barbecued and served
with native herbs and spices.
But then came Christ, and now they are
more civilised – their fun day
is when, unseasoned and uncooked,
they eat him on a Sunday.

When all one believes in seems lost, and one sees
not a ray of hope for great plans Fortune shuns,
Fate sometimes provides opportunities,
but these must be noticed and grasped at once.

Fort Pitt lay besieged by thousands of proud
Lenape reclaiming their land and their skies,
while inside the walls of it small pox broke out,
and soldiers and citizens died just like flies.

‘A pox on those Indians’, barked Major Trent
as the corpses lay piled in the hospital’s court,
‘for keeping us trapped’, when the message was sent
that two Indian chiefs had arrived at the fort.

‘Six nations are gathered and keen to attack,
but they all have agreed when we asked to delay
hostilities, giving you time to pack
and leave the fort and the country today.’

‘I’m grateful for your concern’, Trent replied,
‘but we’ve all that we need in the fort, and apart
from that, three armies will fight at our side,
so go and tell them that they can start.’

But since they meant well, wrote the misanthrope
in his journal, and out of respect (God forbid)
we gave them two hospital blankets. I hope
it will have the desired effect.

                             - It did.

Promises. The surefire practice
to obtain without committing,
chasing dewdrops like a cactus
in the sun remains the fool.
But I shall claim what’s mine now, health permitting:
I want my forty acres and the mule!

Where the futures cast their shadows
though there is no light, they take us
captive in what should be meadows,
and the other captives drool:
‘Be patient, they will not forsake us.’
I want my forty acres and the mule!

When at last the doubting Thomas
was proved right again, and dust is
settling on another promise
where the promise masters rule,
I’ll stand before the king and call for justice:
I want my forty acres and the mule!

When we die as holy rollers
with the promise as the centre
of our being, they’ll console us:
‘We have failed you in the school
of Life, but once you leave this world, you’ll enter
a world with forty acres and a mule.’

Knights in white satin,
always shunning the day,
letters they've written
come down to a K.

They love the darkness,
wear the blood drop and cross
dress to kill ruthlessly,
and they'll show you who's boss.

And they love it,
yes they love it,
oh how they love it!

Like evil fairies
they emerge from the woods,
grown-ups that dress up
in white robes and white hoods.

Sometimes I wonder
what these terrible knights
wear underneath it -
is it stockings or tights?

And they love it,
yes they love it,
oh how they love it!

Clara dressed up, excited
about her newest date –
what kind of doctor was he,
and would he show up late?

The restaurant was crowded,
but soon the waiter lead
them to their place. A woman
came up to him and said:

‘Thanks, doctor, for your kindness.
Now I’m in shape, and on
Sunday I will be running
the charity marathon!’

‘Who was that?’, Clara asked him
after she went away.
‘That lady is a patient,
I trashed her child today.’

The playful young girls of Kilkenny
all adored the grim man who had left
their poor fathers without a penny
and their mothers of honour bereft.

A short man with a much shorter temper,
the old scrooge was the dream of each maid,
but the one to put clothes in his hamper
was none other than Jo McDaid.

On her wedding day, people got nervous,
as did Jo McDaid and her spouse;
of the guests that attended the service
only half went back to their house.

The stars of the Major Arcana
gently smiled upon those who had fled,
and Death wore a velvet bandana
the night Jo McDaid was wed.

As the newly-wed couple were tutting,
the big chandelier fell down
between the two dancers, cutting
big holes in his suit and her gown.

And soon someone found Nirvana
while looking for needle and thread,
for Death wore a velvet bandana
the night Jo McDaid was wed.

The surviving guests left the party
while mumbling ‘It’s getting quite late’,
and the best man bade them a hearty
farewell as they rushed to the gate.

The bridegroom, in shorts from Montana,
lay alone in his bridal bed,
because Death wore a velvet bandana
the night Jo McDaid was wed.

Now you know the bride’s name and how purely
her young heart kept the love that compels;
if you find out her husband’s, you surely
will be blessed by the virgins of Kells.

‘Oh highlands mine and lowlands, tell me where you have been?
You’ve slain the Earl of Moray and Lady Mondegreen.’
King James caressed the corpses: ‘Was all my love in vain?
My world is dead, I feel like a miteside in the rain.’

Her heart was light with passion under her stiff baleen:
amongst the dappled roses walked Lady Mondegreen.
This must have been the happiest day of her carefree life,
because King James had told her that he would kill his wife.

The bonny birds were singing in oak and chestnut tree,
the sun dispersed so brightly his rays on land and sea,
the jasmine spread its fragrance, and soon she would be queen:
a spring in every step had Lady Mondegreen.

The Lady was a tomboy when no one looked, and as
she rode out in the country, she swapped her satin dress
for her beloved kilt which her lover disapproved
of in strong terms – however, the girl remained unmoved.

‘I want to meet the Lady’, the King said to his aide,
but no more in the palace, because I am afraid
the Queen might smell a rodent. Fetch Huntly, he will ride
out to the Earl of Moray where I shall meet my bride.’

Huntly received his orders: ‘Go tell the Earl I need
his house; first fetch the Lady from Rathven, and make speed!
I want her kilt torn, mangled! Then bring a candle and,
once lit, a cross. His faith will serve me well, my friend!’

The loyal Huntly saddled his horse; he was not keen
on this foul task but hurried to Lady Mondegreen.
He brought her to the Earl who obliged and took his coat,
and then he grabbed the Lady and cut her pallid throat.

He gently lit a candle and held it in one hand
while stabbing with the other the Earl, the monarch’s friend.
He cut his face severely, and what he – there’s no doubt –
did to the Lady’s body I shall not write about.

The King arrived in very high spirits at the scene
to greet the Earl of Moray and Lady Mondegreen.
‘What happened?’, he lamented as he broke down and cried.
‘I carried out your orders’, his trusted friend replied.

‘I want her killed, torn, mangled! Then bring a candle, and
one slit across his face will serve me well, my friend!’ -
‘Oh highlands mine and lowlands, tell me where you have been?
You’ve slain the Earl of Moray and Lady Mondegreen.’

The church was empty, dark and cold as he knelt down to pray
after his dad, his wife and their five children passed away,
killed on Croagh Patrick by a fierce enormous avalanche,
dealing the sudden deathblow to the Lawless family branch.

And as he looked up from his prayer, seeking the Saviour’s grace,
he saw the crucifix and found a smirk on Jesus’ face.
So Murphy shook his fist and said: ‘You’re not a god who cures -
you’ve taken seven of my people, now I’ll take seven of yours!’

He then sought out the seven men and women in the church
who were more pious than the rest and followed this research
with studies of their weaknesses; they all could be enticed
to have their poor immortal souls taken away from Christ.

First he approached Miss Molly Dwight, a mousy teenage girl,
and told her: ‘You are beautiful! If you would only curl
your hair and wear some fancy clothes, I’m sure you’d turn the head
of every single man in town – and every single lad.’

That day Miss Molly got a perm and bleached her hazel hair,
she bought a short pink dress, and now she basks in every stare
that’s thrown her way. She holds her head up high, and she looks down
on all the other teenage girls whose colour still is brown.

He went to Mrs. Miggins who, as she did every year,
was baking cakes for charity and said: ‘Why are you here?
Your cakes and biscuits are superb - why waste your gift? I am
surprised you feed the church instead of simply selling them.’

Today old Mrs. Miggins owns a busy bakery
in town, and it’s been said that she gives nothing away for free.
She piles up money while her staff get less than minimum wage,
and any talk of charity will put her in a rage.

Then there is Mr. Brown, a man who’s friendly and polite,
a model husband with a crush on little Molly Dwight.
He had confessed to Murphy once: ‘I’d love to take her out,
but at our age we’ve got no chance’, and Murph replied: ‘No doubt.’

But one day Murphy asked the girl to play a prank on friends,
and so they passed Brown’s house at night, laughing and holding hands.
And through the window he saw Brown grow pale and clench his fist
and bang his head against the wall as he and Molly kissed.

McSharry was a misanthrope and hated dogs as well,
especially the ones that crapped at his front door. He’d yell
at anyone who came too close, he’s cross and has been known
to throw a beer can at a man or the occasional stone.

So Murphy took his favourite cow out for a walk nearby,
and at McSharry’s door he let it drop its little pie.
The landlord came out with a gun; the two did not persist,
yet he kept shooting after them but fortunately missed.

Mr. O’Malley had five kids and, as he claims, no more
encounters with his wife, for he thinks intercourse is for
this purpose only, and his wife confirms he never glanced
at other ladies, never drank and never ever danced.

But Murphy caught him after mass and pulled him to the side
and showed him Molly’s photographs. His pupils opened wide,
and with a new-found lecherous grin upon his face he said,
unaware he spoke aloud: ‘I’d love to get my hands on that!’

Then there was dainty Mrs. Walsh who hardly touched a bite;
as she would say: ‘To eat much more than needed isn’t right’.
However, she did have a weak spot for banana bread –
one trip to Mrs. Miggins, and her temperance would be dead.

So Murph invited Mrs. Walsh to biscuits and to tea.
‘I’ll have a nibble’, she complied, tried a variety
of different types like bánh chuoi, and in the little space
of minutes she had lost control and stuffed her temperate face.

To make the world a better place, Jim Carr had volunteered
to help the homeless, feed the poor and, though the others sneered,
to spread God’s word. They did forget his birthday, this is true,
but those who want to save mankind will say: ‘It’s not ‘bout you!’

‘There’s agony throughout the world, but God and church don’t care,
and you won’t make a difference; they don’t even know you’re there.’
He thought about what Murphy said, withdrawing more and more
from all his tasks, stays home and does not even answer the door.

‘You’re seven down’, Murph told the Lord when back at church. ‘You’re mince,
for your most virtuous children have committed deadly sins.
I see your smirk has disappeared – don’t ever mess with me
again!’, but then his mobile rang; it was his wife’s GP.

‘I didn’t let you know before to let your grief subside,
but I must tell you that your wife was pregnant when she died.’
Murphy sat down and caught his breath, close to a heart attack;
he looked up at the crucifix, and Jesus’ smirk was back.

Quite merry and unmarried, Brynhild
put on her dancing shoes,
went to the ball with her rich lover
and told him the good news.

He snapped, threw Brynhild on the dance floor,
shouted at her and spat
her in the face and kicked her stomach,
turned round and grabbed his hat.

She got up early one bright morning,
sneaked to his door and smiled:
his breakfast milk, spiced up with strychnine,
avenged their unborn child.

She went aboard an ocean liner
thereafter, said farewell
to Norway, travelled to the States
and changed her name to Belle.

And there she married, had four children
and ran a little store
with Mads, her spouse, and bill collectors
who lined up at the door.

Alas, the store caught fire one evening,
the flames she could not douse,
but they were paid by the insurance
and bought a bigger house.

That house burned down as well, and with the
insurance money paid
they bought an even better home
where their children laughed and played.

One day two of their little children
just after lunch turned white,
complained of stomach cramps and fever
and died that very night.

Belle cashed her children’s life insurance
and for a little sum
adopted a girl called Jennie Olsen
who gladly called her Mum.

Yet all too soon she’d spent the money;
her husband in his mild
manner announced: ‘It seems we’ll have to
trade in another child.’

But Belle had other plans. Her husband
died on the only day
when two insurance companies
were liable to pay.

She bought a farm and met Pete Gunness,
a rich man from La Porte
with his two daughters. They got married;
their marriage was quite short.

His younger girl died in Belle’s arms.
While working in the shed
to fix a chair, a sausage grinder
fell on Pete Gunness’ head.

Gust Gunness heard the news and rushed to
his brother Pete’s estate
in time to save his other niece
from a corresponding fate.

As Belle cashed in the life insurance
(the best she’s ever had),
Jennie confided in her classmate:
‘My mum has killed my dad.’

Jennie then faced the coroner’s jury
but blatantly denied
her accusation; Belle was pregnant,
and so they let it slide.

Belle then employed and became engaged to
the farmhand Ray, and when
Jennie was gone, she advertised in
the papers for a man:

Comely young widow with large farm
seeks gentleman nearby
to meet with view of joining fortunes.
No triflers need apply.

The suitors came with loads of money
to prove their wealth; they found
a massive woman in her forties
but chose to stay around.

They did succeed in joining fortunes,
of this there is no doubt:
dozens of men walked into her farmhouse,
but only one walked out.

George Anderson had gone to bed
after a glass of wine
while Ray was digging at the hog pen
and Belle was feeding swine.

But he awoke to quite a nightmare
in the middle of the night:
his sturdy hostess standing over
him in the candlelight.

With a foreboding stare, a cleaver
and a pad of chloroform
she looked to him like the Grim Reaper,
lit by a thunderstorm.

He screamed, she ran – he made his lucky
escape. Since this went wrong,
the pigs went hungry the next evening,
but not for very long.

The men kept coming and signed over
deeds and cashed cheques for Belle;
some relatives were asking questions
but disappeared as well.

Annoyed with him, she fired her farmhand
who strove to be her spouse
and told police that he had threatened
that he’d burn down her house.

She hired a farmhand and a dainty
housekeeper who would fill
Ray’s place, emptied her bank accounts
and then drew up her will.

That night the farmhand woke up smelling
a fire, ran down the stair
and called for help and kept on running
in his white underwear.

But meanwhile the entire building
was burnt right to the ground;
amongst the debris soon Belle Gunness’
remaining kids were found.

Belle’s tiny corpse lay right beside them;
they never found the head.
‘Look how the fire has shrunk her body’,
the County Sheriff said.

The gruesome story spread like wildfire,
and anyone who read
it in the L.A. Times might also
have come across this ad:

Comely young widow with large farm
seeks gentleman nearby
to meet with view of joining fortunes.
No triflers need apply.