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Mary, Mary

Mary, Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells And pretty maids all in a row. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, What’s inside your head? Thoughts of darkness, thoughts of hatred, Now Miss Mary’s dead. Mary, Mary, too contrary, Always fighting, never smiled. Mary’s mother and Mary’s father Thought that Mary was too wild. Daddy hit her, Mommy yelled, Face was bleeding, face was swelled. A once pretty girl, she now looked broken The demons inside her had been woken. Broken heart, broken bone, Bruised face, broken home. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, Your garden’s running red. The bells are broke, the shells are dull, And the pretty maids all are dead.