In 1873, I inherited the mansion,
From my uncle, Ambrose,
After my cousin Edward took his life.
I was wealthy in property,
But had not a penny to my name.
Naturally, there was only one way to solve this.
I married Horace Grover,
And became rich.
But of course, he was only a gentleman when he was sober,
Which was almost never.
So, one day, while he was asleep,
I hummed him a sweet lullaby,
As I held the chloroform-soak handkerchief over his mouth.
A year passed and my money soon ran out,
While paying debts.
So I married again.
Eugene Kissinger, an oil man,
But he loved oil more than he loved me,
And always came home with the smell of a prostitute's cheap perfume,
So, one day, while he was walking in the orchard,
I accidentally dropped an axe while trimming branches,
Beheading him.
Another year passed, and I married
Joseph Phillips, a banker.
He got into some trouble with a client's stocks and bonds,
And began drinking.
One night he came home with a pistol in his hand,
But in his drunken stupor,
He shot himself, and I laughed at his stupidity.
Another year passed and I married William Wetherall,
A lawyer, who was anything but law-abiding.
I stumbled one day on his collection of
Pictures of women, if you catch my drift.
So, while making tea for him,
I poisoned it.
A year later I married Mortimer Newton III,
Who was rather old, and a tad unstable,
But filthy rich.
But one day, his instability turned to madness,
And he strangled me.
How ironical.