Of Heads and Florists

She ripped his head off,

And grinned with glee,

Looking at it, she gave a polite little cough,

And said, "Sorry, Sir, but I'd rather you than me"

The man looked shocked,

Such was the face of his death,

After all, his lungs were suddenly blocked,

And so cut off was his breath.

Yet a gasp came from the head,

The last rattle ere oblivion,

"Look under my bed!

I've hidden a million!"

"And don't ye dare to tell me daughter,

And don't ye dare to tell me wife,

Aye, and wash me head with water.

Else in 'Ell there'll be some strife"

That said the man stopped talking,

The light in his eyes grew dim,

The girl resumed walking,

And sang a merry hymn.

She walked through the forest,

She walked through the town,

She sang to the florist,

In her bloodied gown.

The highway robbers jumped out at her,

They stabbed freely away,

But then, they stopped as they were,

Suddenly aware she was fay.