The Death Of Janet Green

In a house full of riches, she felt defeated

Diamonds, pearls, rubies, and trinkets

The scour of an infant sorrow

Defines her,

Oh the dead and the living cry

With her wicked roses to match

Unbeknownst to her, the flail flies ruin

Such cassidies of truin,

I honor this humble abode

Which is trashy and denying

Because there is no evening without her

Such dirty looks

Bring dirty books,

Oh what a confession beneath the dust

The dust that trembles at her death

For tomorrow the graveyard shall sing

And all hail to all truths

The peanut butter shall rot,

And all the crazy dolls that live here

Won't live here no more

Because love is a funny name for this broad

For this infant sorrow is king

And grown women scream and cry

For she is a library woman, you see?

Books, books, and dirty looks

What is your formal initiation?

For with death comes sorrow

Just look at her picture

Mobiling before the scene;

Oh truant looks a-grieving

For the ghost of Janet Green has passed.