Hail Mary Mallon - Plagues and Bacon lyrics

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 Could'a been a Magdellan, Mary had a craft It would ask her to master the oven of Manhattan's upper cla** 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 Knives don't cut in the kitchen But yes those cooks might die Tied to the same folk who loved ya And then use 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 placed the trays on the pots and plates Keep the goose and the gander and the possums laid Heart is good as gone with no option, weighed Whatever Mary carried when the doctors came Coats on masked up orderly Hellish fever formed from the pork and beans d**h came to dinner with New York's elite A cup a milk a stick of bu*ter and some quarantine Mallon's talents, a balance of beasts born From the typhoid cellulo' tell you to keep warm d**h in a petticoat peddle her sweet corn To the butcher in the bowery and a felony feeds four What cop? Want to tell you to keep clear Manages sandwiches well and it breeds fear On the bar near the bucket of cheap beers It's your money or your life if you continue to eat here! Mary don't f** with the cake today. Please don't f** with the cake today! [x4] (Ay) 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 Innocently hid a bit headache in the venison. America Might get bedside critical Sweating in her X-eye, d**h by dinner bell Indignance and diligence loudly, how she Worked for the lawyers employing her proudly Made 'em the medicine they stayed 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 'em Good made of wood whittled down to the aphids The danger is dead and buried at St. Raymond's