Lydia's Lair

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Gothic Nursery Rhymes
by Lydia Wick

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.
(c) Lydia Wick

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
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
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
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

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All written material on this site is the copyrighted property of İLydia Wick 2002-2003 OR LISA LINDSEY All rights reserved. And may not be reprinted without permission.