Product of boredom and depression.

A ring, a ring o' roses,
A pocket full o'posies-
Atch chew! Atch chew!

We all fall down

~London, 1349

"Bring out your dead!" The bodies lined the street, in the gutters, outsides doors marred with red crosses. 'Quarantine,' it meant. 'The Spotted Death reigns here.' Enola stared unseeingly out the window, as the gravediggers went about their grisly work, heaping the blackened corpses onto hand carts, leading them to the mass graves.

I wish I could go with them, she thought, so I could be with Mum. A harsh cough woke her from her morbid reverie. Her father coughed again, bloody spittle running down his chin, stinging his sores. Tears pricked her eyes. She longed to comfort him, to give him heartsease, but fear kept her away. The flow of sputum increased, staining the collar of his muddy shirt red. His eyes widened. A rattle echoed in his throat, and he grew still.

"Da? Da!" Enola ran to his side, abandoning all caution. She grasped his blackened hand and held it to her cheek.

"Da, wake up, wake up, I don't want you to go, I don't want to be..." She trailed away. She shouldn't mourn. After all, wasn't this how it was to be? First Mum, now Da. Her name said it all.

Enola.

Alone.

Enola, alone, ill and dying.

Hardening her jaw, she dragged her father out into the street, reeking with the stench of death. Silently, she walked away from her home. A group of waifs, pockmarked and grim, welcomed her quietly. They had watched her leave her father's cadaver and had sung the dark truth softly.

A ring, a ring o' roses,
A pocket full o'posies-
Atch chew! Atch chew!

We all fall down

Parody of Jack be Nimble

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick,

Jack jump over the candlestick.

Jack be quick, but Jill be faster,

Sad her jump ends with disaster.

She knocked over her candlestick,

And burnt London-shire down, brick by brick.

How Humpty Dumpty came to be.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses,

And all the king's men,

Couldn't put Humpty together again.

King Richard III of England, strumming his lyre in heaven moodily, really should have been less trusting.

The King, being a hunchback, was fondly (and not-so-fondly) nicknamed the Egg (most notably by Shakespeare). One fine English day, the Egg decided to got to battle for the last time. The War of the Roses was starting to drag, and was keeping His Majesty from the Royal Bird watching Club. He'd just teach the Earl his place and have a nice long nap. But, (here he thrashed his lyre violently), how was he to know his loyal supporters, his Wall to back him up, would desert him so quickly! Thus he was dragged of White Surrey, his steed, and brutally hacked to pieces.

And all the king's horses,

And all the king's men,

Couldn't put Humpty together again.

Not that they tried (lousy, back-stabbing maggots).

~King Richard III of England