If in the obituary column, sniff it
It was written by the forks and knives of Mary Mallon
Fever in the stew, sorta buried in rabbits and boiled cabbage
Had a little lamb - it was average
Coulda been a Magdellan, Mary had a craft
It would ask her to master the oven of manhattan's upper class
On a budget, lunched with the cemetery staff
Til her resume had slashed through the stomachs of the public
Everyone around you is dying
Everything you touch caught the pest
Imagine for a second the unrest
When the fruit of your labor is like a poison to the
Very employers you are laboring to impress
Queen mary midas, if gold is a rose-colored virus
Alive in the vilest environments around
Feed you the spices in which you are later cooked
Knives don't cut in the kitchen
But yes those cooks may die
Tied to the same folk who loved you
And then used blood for the pie
Sick don't look like it used to
And hearts can't eat of your fork
This goes out to the tragic
Cause hail mary mallon wants more
She place the trays on the pots and plates
Keep the goose and the gander with the possum played
A heart as good as gone and no option weighed
Whatever Mary carried when the doctors came
Coats on masked up orderly, "Hah"
Hellish fever formed from the pork and beans
Death came to dinner with New York's elite
A cup a milk a stick of butter and some quarantine
Mallon's talents, a balance of beasts born
From the typhoid Cellulose tell you to keep warm
Death in a petty coat peddle her sweet corn
To the butcher in the bowery and a felony feeds four
What cop? want to tell you to keep clear
Manage your sandwich isn't well and it breeds fear
On the bar near the bucket of cheap beers
Its your money or your life if you continue to eat here!
Got a unlucky pot where the ham hock wash up
Fifty cots in a sickly room
Each a pristine notch in her mixing spoon
Mary ain't a monster a marvel of medicine, I
Innocently hid a bit headache in the venison, america
Might get bedside critical
Sweating in her X-eye, death by dinner bell
Indignant and diligence loudly, how'd she
Work for the lawyers employing her proudly
She made them the medicine they stay at home drowning
The fix is the Jones and Tyrone is the county
We know you mean well Mary, patience
There ain't enough will in the world that can save them
Good made of wood widdled down to the aphid
The danger is dead and buried at St. Raymond's