Plagues and Bacon - Hail Mary Mallon

-Well, we’ve got garlic, we’ve got some mushrooms, potatoes, carrots and

parsnips…

-Ah, I’m a fan of parsnips

-…lots of rosemary, 'cause I’m a fan of rosemary

If in the obituary column, sniff it

It was written by the forks and knives of Mary Mallon

Fever in the stew, sorta buried in rabbits and boiled cabbage

Had a little lamb — it was average

Coulda been a Magdellan, Mary had a craft

It would ask her to master the oven of Manhattan’s upper class

On a budget, lunched with the cemetery staff

Til her resume had slashed through the stomachs of the public

Everyone around you is dying

Everything you touch caught the pest

Imagine for a second the unrest

When the fruit of your labor is like a poison to the

Very employers you are laboring to impress

Queen Mary Midas, if gold is a rose-colored virus

Alive in the vilest environments around

Ladle in the soup

Feed you the spices in which you are later cooked

…OK, so the flour is there, and you mix in the butter, so we’re then going to

add in a little bit of water…

Knives don’t cut in the kitchen

But yes those cooks may die

Tied to the same folk who loved you

And then used blood for the pie

Sick don’t look like it used to

And hearts can’t eat off your fork

This goes out to the tragic

'Cause hail Mary Mallon wants more

She place the trays on the pots and plates

Keep the goose and the gander with the possum played

A heart as good as gone and no option weighed

Whatever Mary carried when the doctors came

Coats on masked up orderly, «Hah»

Hellish fever formed from the pork and beans

Death came to dinner with New York’s elite

A cup a milk a stick of butter and some quarantine

Mallon’s talents, a balance of beasts born

From the typhoid cellular to tell you to keep warm

Death in a petty coat peddle her sweet corn

To the butcher in the bowery and a felony feeds four

What cop?

want to tell you to keep clear

Manage your sandwiches well and it breeds fear

On the bar near the bucket of cheap beers

Its your money or your life if you continue to eat here!

Mary, don’t fuck with the cake today

Please don’t fuck with the cake today

Not a pot luck

Got a unlucky pot where the ham hock wash up

Cram that slop down

Fifty cots in a sickly room

Each a pristine notch in her mixing spoon

Mary ain’t a monster a marvel of medicine, I

Innocently hid a bit headache in the venison, America

Might get bedside critical

Sweating in her X-eye, death by dinner bell

Indignance and diligence loudly, how’d she

Work for the lawyers employing her proudly

She made them the medicine they stay at home drowning

The fix is the Jones and Tyrone is the county

We know you mean well Mary, patience

There ain’t enough will in the world that can save them

Good made of wood widdled down to the aphid

The danger is dead and buried at St. Raymond’s

-…and into the pan.

Now this all sort of melts down and goes nice and squidgy

and soggy.

Now for some mushrooms -- got to be careful -- there we go,

if you could stir those around.

No problem;

it’s kind of nice having a kitchen

slave, I must say!

-…So are you planning to have a herb garden?