Papa’s sleeping on the sofa in his suit Flies are landing on the bowl of rotting fruit Bridget’s in the kitchen wringing out the rags Dusty parlor filled with heavy leather bags Abby’s upstairs tucking corners in the sheet Steaming tea leaf floating in the midday heat I sat out in the barn until my hands went numb Waiting for the holy ghost to come There’s an iron hatchet sitting in the hay Praying for the Lord to take the sun away You were born to rot inside your father’s house Quiet as a penny, quiet as a mouse Put the heavy blade into the cedar bed Ain't no church to preach in when the preacher’s dead Hush now... let the floorboards take the weight... Quiet... before the hour gets too late... Gave her mother forty whacks Gave his body forty-one Wash the dress in the kitchen sink Look at what your daughter’s done
