Unwritten. For reasons

Bury my drawers on Lakey Hill
Or in level field adjacent.
I’ll don the trews of me long-dead Phil
And lurch out feeling dacent.

In peace I come, with flapjacks none,
Bound over as to baking.
But taking my brood, one by one,
Dear Lord, my heart is breaking.

Young Pip is a slut and her brat obese,
(Nothing to do with cake without cease)
My son is in hock to Vince the Grease…
Is it very greedy to want some peace?

So I’ll sift the arsenic into the flour
And bake up an apple pie.
We may not know the day nor the hour,
Except I do. And they will die.

PS: it keeps telling me me topic is ‘similar to’. I really hope not, else I would worry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m worried.


There seems to be a typo in your postscript. We don’t like it when you’re worried.