[Intro] (Thumping boot on floorboards) (Rhythmic lute strumming) (Laughter and the clink of pewter) [Verse 1] Down in the Muddy Bottom, where the cows are thin and old Lived a wench by name of Margery, or so the tale is told She didn't spend her mornings at the butter-churn or loom She was scratching funny symbols in the dust within her room I saw her in the meadow, looking at a flock of sheep I asked "How many, Margery?" before I went to sleep She didn't blink, she didn't pause, she didn't even squint She said "There’s seventy-six, you fool, and three have got a tint" [Pre-Chorus] The Blacksmith dropped his hammer, the Miller turned quite pale The Priest began to stammer and he spilled his holy ale For counting past your fingers is a sin against the crown And logic in a lady puts the sun a-upside down [Chorus] Oh, she’s the Heretic of Arithmetic, the Witch of the Plus and Minus She’s got a brain like a ledger-book, may the Good Lord go and find us! She did a multiplication, boys, without a single prayer She’s calculating volumes of the very bloody air! (The very bloody air!) [Verse 2] The taxman came a-calling for the tithe upon the grain He said we owed him forty-two, and smiled despite the rain But Margery, she stepped right up, a charcoal in her hand She drew a circle in the muck and shamed him 'fore the land She said "The radius is four, the depth is barely three That’s thirty-seven bushels, sir, as any fool can see!" The taxman’s jaw hit gravel, he looked like he’d seen a ghost He fled across the county line to the safety of the coast [Pre-Chorus] The Blacksmith dropped his hammer, the Miller turned quite pale The Priest began to stammer and he spilled his holy ale For counting past your fingers is a sin against the crown And logic in a lady puts the sun a-upside down [Chorus] Oh, she’s the Heretic of Arithmetic, the Witch of the Plus and Minus She’s got a brain like a ledger-book, may the Good Lord go and find us! She did a multiplication, boys, without a single prayer She’s calculating volumes of the very bloody air! (The very bloody air!) [Bridge] (Tempo slows, fiddle becomes low and menacing) We gathered in the village square with torches and with pitch To decide if she was brilliant or a devil-spawned old witch "How can a womb hold wisdom?" cried the Beadle in a huff "A woman’s skull is hollow, filled with dandelion fluff!" She looked us in the eyeballs and she said with chilly grace "The angle of your pitchforks is a disgrace to the human race" (A disgrace to the race!) [Instrumental Break] (Frenzied fiddle solo, frantic tin whistle, heavy rhythmic stomping) [Verse 3] She didn't wait for judgment, she just grabbed a compass tool She measured out the distance to the forest like a fool She said "The hypotenuse is shorter if I walk toward the West" And vanished in the brambles while we put her to the test We searched for three whole fortnights, but the math was too complex We couldn't track a woman who could solve for Y and X Now the cows are uncounted and the ale is overcharged And Margery’s a legend that’s significantly enlarged [Final Chorus] Oh, she’s the Heretic of Arithmetic, the Witch of the Plus and Minus She’s got a brain like a ledger-book, may the Good Lord go and find us! She did a multiplication, boys, without a single prayer She’s calculating volumes of the very bloody air! (The very bloody air!) [Outro] So hide your abacus, my girls, and keep your spirits low If you start to do the calculus, the village has to know Subtract a bit of knowledge, add a bucket of the gloom Or they’ll find a way to fit a square root in your tomb! (Spoken) God preserve us from the decimals! (Final stomp)
