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Thine
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Song of Joy
Have mercy on me, sir,
Allow me to impose on you：
I have no place to stay and my bones are cold right through...
I will tell you a story, of a man and his family,
And I swear that it is true：
Ten years ago I met a girl named Joy;
She was a sweet and happy thing;
Her eyes were bright blue jewels,
And we were married in the spring.
I'd no idea what happiness a little love could bring,
Or what life had in store...
But all things move towards their end
All things move toward their end
— On that you can be sure!
Then one morning I awoke to find her weeping,
And for many days to follow
She grew so sad and lonely,
Became Joy in name only;
Within her breast there launched an unnamed sorrow,
And a dark and grim force set sail...
Farewell happy fields,
Where joy forever dwells;
Hail horrors hail!
Was it an act of contrition, or some awful premonition?
As if she saw into the heart of her blood-soaked night.
Those lunatic eyes;
That hungry kitchen knife...
I see, sir, that I have your attention!
Well, could it be?
How often have I asked that question?
Well, then in quick succession we had babies, one, two, and three
We called them Hilda, Hattie and Holly
They were their mother's children
Their eyes were bright blue jewels and they were quiet as a mouse:
There was no laughter in the house,
No, not from Hilda, Hattie or Holly
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'No wonder', people said, 'poor mother Joy, so melancholy'
Well, one night, there came a visitor to our little home —
I was visiting a sick friend —
I was a doctor then —
Joy and the girls were on their own!
Joy had been bound with electrical tape,
In her mouth a gag;
She'd been stabbed repeatedly and stuffed into a sleeping bag.
In their very cots my girls were robbed of their lives,
Method of murder much the same way as my wife's;
Yeah, method of murder much the same way as my wife's.
It was midnight when I arrived home
Spoke to the police on the telephone:
'Someone's taken four innocent lives!'
They never caught the man;
He's still on the loose;
It seems he has done many, many more!
Quotes John Milton on the walls in the victim's blood;
The police are investigating at tremendous cost;
In my house he wrote, '[his red right hand]'
—That, I'm told is from Paradise Lost
The wind round here gets wicked cold,
But my story is nearly told —
I fear the morning will bring quite a frost!
And so I've left my home;
I drift from land to land;
I am upon your step and you are a family man —
Outside, the vultures wheel,
The wolves howl,
The serpents hiss,
And to extend this small favour, friend, would be the sum of earthly bliss —
Do you reckon me a friend?
The sun to me is dark and silent as the moon —
Do you, sir, have a room?
Are you beckoning me in?
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