A very unfortunate thing
has taken place this very evening.
My husband came home sick of ale
and now he will be dead as a doornail.

I know not just how it happened;
it did not go quite how I’d imagined.
He was supposed to eat the cake
with poison like that of a snake.

But instead he simply passed out!
And I couldn’t wake him with even a shout.
So I decided to improvise.
What did I have by way of supplies?

A knife to cut him apart?
A gun to blow through his heart?
A noose to hang his neck?
Surely, they’d leave the house a wreck.

What of a pillow?—of course!
What an excellent—a genius!—source,
just smother him with those feathers!
Oh! How I am just so clever!

So smother him I did,
and in moments he was dead.
I sat down to celebrate.
I sang and drank and ate.

What a delicious piece of cake!
And then I had realized my mistake.