The Irish Rose is a scary funny poem about a young woman who kills her entire family. It was written as a parody of murder ballads and morbid Irish songs.
About an Irish girl, there is a song,
This tragic tale won’t take too long.
Not only did she do her family wrong,
She did every one of them in.
They called her The Wild Irish Rose.
She lived down where the valley lows,
Where food is scarce and a cold wind blows,
And the grass on the ground is thin.
One morning in a fit of pique,
She drowned her father in the creek.
The water tasted bad for a week,
And there was nothing to drink but gin.
Her mother she could never stand,
And so a poisoned soup she planned.
The mother died with spoon in hand,
And on her face, a hideous grin.
She set her sister’s hair on fire,
And as the smoke and flame rose higher,
She danced around the funeral pyre,
Playing her violin.
She weighed her brother down with stones,
And drowned him there, despite his moans.
All they ever found were bones,
And occasional pieces of skin.
One day when she had nothing to do,
She cut her baby brother in two,
Then served him up as an Irish stew,
And invited the neighbors in.
And when at last the police came by,
The murders she could not deny.
To do so would have been a lie,
And lying, she knew, was a sin.
My tragic tale, I won’t prolong,
If you did not enjoy this song,
Don’t blame me if it’s been too long,
You should never have let me begin.