The Ballad of Martha May

Sadness pierced her little soul,

in deep ol' woods she lost her doll.

She carried grief along the road,

down the hills and through meadow.

With heavy sighs she carried on,

marching all the way back home.

She rode the winds like poplar leaves

in late December, wond'ring how she landed,

Where she ended,

by the ye ol' Thompson creek.

The air was cold, she smelled damp earth,

then heard the crying of the birds.

They followed her and called her that:

"Young blood, baby fat."

All the life packed in her soft lil' body,

they wanted, demanded, loudly.

She knew a bridge was somewhere near,

but found no crossing anywhere

Through her watery gaze, lost in a maze,

by the ye ol' Thompson creek.

She jumped around on rocks and scree

wet from the trembling black creek.

She jumped to cross the raging stream,

until she slipped with a scream.

The sky, so blue, she saw its hue

before it turned dark all through.

Heavy woolen skirt she had,

with the current, down she went.

Now, so scarlet, she is stained,

by the ye ol' Thompson creek.

Black birds gathered in a murder,

all along the river border,

On ghoulish branches they calmly sat,

waiting to pick her flesh and fat.

Came new spring with all its wonders,

people found four-pound bone fragments.

They recognized her from the wool,

and tears they shed by pocketful.

Now, her bones are sprinkled yonder,

by the ye ol' Thompson creek.