Lizzie Borden took an axe to her dear old Dad,
His constant cutting her down drove her mad,
Yet even as he fell victim to foul patricide
He felt for his wild child a slice of paternal pride;
She’d proved she came from hard-working Irish stock,
With a chip on her shoulder, a real chip off the old block.
Maw was not best pleased with what she saw,
She stood, in bits and pieces, looking over Paw,
Stepmum looked appealingly at step-daughter
Hoping Lizzie would settle for manslaughter,
She hoped to survive and to head off any scandal
‘Cause Liz and the axe had both flown off the handle.
But Lizzie produced from under her pinafore a hatchet-
Lizzie had her plan and she planned to despatch it,
She did not hear her stepmums pleas of ‘Stop! Stop!’
Lizzie was keen to get stuck in, chop chop.
What a pity dear old Dad, so recently laid to rest
Didn’t see Liz working away like a woman possessed.
But since the trial our Lizzie is doing well,
No longer constrained in her padded cell
She’s free to glumly walk the guarded grounds,
She dourly nods at the Doc doing his rounds,
That tragic face rarely bears an authentic smile,
But sometimes, as she lingers by the wood pile…