Gothic Nursery Rhymes

Gothic Nursery Rhymes

art by sunartique

Mudder Noose

Once upon a crime,

a sadist turned story teller

crept into the nursery

and stole baby and cradle and all,

propped it in a treetop

and rubbed her hands together,

hoping for a squall.

Should this surprise

either parents or babysitter

after the nursery rhymes she told?

As if they weren't violent enough

with an Old Woman in a Shoe

beating her children senseless

and sending them to bed hungry,

or, worse, force-feeding them

pea porridge that was nine days old.

Does it matter if it's hot or cold?

My theory:

Mother Goose was unable to have children

and so she exercised her wrath on the very

creatures she hated to love.

Or is that loved to hate?

At any rate,

I am amazed that civilized society

has turned her into a literary icon

while that baby and its cradle

still teeter on a high bough.

Poor Little Rachel

A pocketful of marbles
And a dress full of tears
Poor little Rachel
Fell down the stairs
When she hit the bottom
She cracked her little head
Poor little Rachel
Cold and dead

Now Rachel cannot speak
And Rachel cannot stir
And Rachel cannot see the angel
Looking down at her
Rachel's angel guardian
With pretty wings and hair
Where were you when little Rachel
Fell down the stairs?

c. Lydia Wick

Alice, Sweet Alice

Is that a prom dress you are wearing?
Alice, Sweet Alice
Is that a corsage you are bearing?
Alice, Sweet Alice
You could have been a cheerleader
You could have been a pious girl
Before the bloody coat hanger
Alice, Sweet Alice

Is that the bouquet Tommy gave you?
Alice, Sweet Alice
Is that the rosary Mommy gave you?
Alice, Sweet Alice
They look so pretty gripped as glued
Between your folded hands of blue
I must say, death becomes you.
Alice, Sweet Alice

c. Lydia Wick

Tombstone Harry

Tombstone Harry
Of Spring Grove Cemetery
How does your garden grow?
With broken skulls and rotting hulls
And brittle bones all in a row.

c. Lydia Wick

Blue Boy

Little Boy Blue
Did not make a peep
Under the haystack
Presumed asleep
Until they discovered
The pitchfork to blame
And that's the true story
Behind Blue Boy's name

c. Lydia Wick

Naughty Nanette

Naughty Little Nanette
As naughty as one gets
Lived in a funeral home
She laughed at the corpses
And whipped them like horses
And wondered why none of them
Moaned

Naughty Little Nanette
Hid in a casket
Next to a corpse she hid
She thought it was sleeping
Till she heard people weeping
Then somebody closed the lid

c. Lydia Wick

Scarlet Widow

She moves across the funeral room
With hands as icy as a tomb
And eyes that drip a tale of woe
Yet in her web they'd never know

She's the Merry Widow
Dressed in red
Drops a rose in the coffin
And bows her head

Whether he gone by death or divorce
Her chilly smile leaves no remorse

c. Lydia Wick

A Tisket a Tasket

A tisket a tasket

A green and yellow casket

With pallbearers too scrawny

To carry the weight

And on the way they dropped it

They dropped it, they dropped it

And on the way they dropped it.

c. Lydia Wick

Real Witch Project

Go to bed
My little puddinhead
The witching hour is nigh

The monster in the closet
Will soon awake
The Jack-in-the-box
Will cry

No sticks, no stones

No broken bones

For you this Halloween

No tricks or treats

Or smelly feets

No candy corn

November morn

So go to bed
My little puddinhead
And dream your final dream

The monster in the closet
Is hungry now
And no one can hear you

SCREAM!

c. Lydia Wick

Confession in Hell

Forgive me, Father,

for I have sinned,

my last confession was

one-hundred-and-twelve years ago.

Forgive me again, Father,

for I tell not the truth.

This is my very first time in this

cramped, dark booth.

You see, I was once a Protestant

Sunday School Teacher

in quiet River Falls, Massachusetts,

back in the year of our Lord

eighteen-hundred-and-ninety-two.

I was thirty then, plus two,

a spinster, dull as dishwater,

still my father's youngest daughter.

And I obeyed nearly all

of God's Ten Commandments,

I kept holy the Sabbath, and ne'er once

did these lips blaspheme,

and these hands did not steal,

nor did I covet a blessed thing.

So you must now be wondering

what brings me thus to my knees?

There were but two commandments,

Father, that I failed to honor,

first, the one about honoring

thy mother and thy father,

and that other one, well,

it is number six or seven,

depending upon if one is Catholic

or Protestant. . .

"Thou shalt not kill!"

shouted the defense attorney.

And so nodded the judge

and twelve members of the jury.

All unanimously agreed

I was incapable of murder.

Lizzie Borden could not swat a fly,

the courtroom murmured.

But forgive me, Father,

for I have sinned.

This is my first confession. . .

Yes, I truly did take that awful ax,

and I gave my mother forty whacks,

and after I saw what I had done

I gave my father forty-one.

And now my soul grieves as a tolling bell!

Tell me, Father, is there no forgiveness

in Hell?!

Or does my heartfelt contrition

fall upon deafened ears?

Forgive me, Father, for asking. . .

But why are YOU here?

c. Lydia Wick

The Face of Lucifer

Have you seen the face of Lucifer lately?

Have you seen his face in the death photos

of the mangled victims of Jack the Ripper?

Have you seen his face in the piled snowdrifts

of skeleton bones shoveled from Hitler's

concentration camps?

Or through the white hood of a Klansman,

sneering with satisfaction as the color black

turns blue at the end of a choking rope?

Lucifer laughs at your images

of red devils and pitchforks...

Kindergarten scribble.

c. Lydia Wick

All That I Loved Is Gone

My grandmother hid all the paper clips.

Now I can't dig my arms or pierce my lips.

She says self-mutilation's a sick ego trip.

All that I loved is gone.

And why did they take my poor daddy away

To a prison or nuthouse? Nobody will say.

It can't be much fun weaving baskets all day.

All that I loved is gone.

I hate my step-mom 'cause she's smelly and fat.

She drowned all my kittens and stuffed all my rats

Down the garbage disposal with all my pet bats.

All that I loved is gone.

My boyfriend was found with an ax in his head

Lying next to my former best friend--also dead.

Of course I regret it, should've shot them instead!

All that I loved is gone.

Here on Death Row we cannot watch TV.

No more Freddie Krueger on DVD.

They won't even let me watch news clips of ME.

All that I loved is gone.

c. Lydia Wick

Lydia Wick

Lydia, Lydia, who is Lydia

Loathsome Lydia Wick?

Her nursery crimes

And scary tales

Of Jacks and Jills

And bloodstained pails

And Little Boy Blues

On pitchforks impaled

Are enough to make

One sick!

Shame on Lydia,

Lydia Wick!

c. Lydia Wick