Em
About a maid I'll sing a song.
Am Em
Sing rickety-tickety tin.
Am Em
About a maid I'll sing a song,
C Em
Who didn't have her family long.
Am
Not only did she do them wrong;
Em D Em D
She did every one of them in, them in,
Em D Em
She did every one of them in.

One morning in a fit of pique …
She drowned her father in the creek.
The water tasted bad for a week
And they had to make do with gin, with gin …

Her mother she could never stand …
And so a cyanide soup she planned.
The mother died with a spoon in her hand
And her face in a hideous grin, a grin...

She set her sister's hair on fire …
And as the smoke and flame rose higher
Danced around the funeral pyre
Playing a violin, -olin …

She weighted her brother down with stones …
And sent him off to Davy Jones.
All they ever found were some bones
And occasional pieces of skin …

One day when she had nothing to do …
She cut her baby brother in two
And served him up as an Irish stew
And invited the neighbours in, -bours in …

And when at last the police came by …
Her little pranks she could not deny.
To do so she would have had to lie,
And lying, she knew, was a sin …

My tragic tale I won't prolong …
And if you do not enjoy my song,
You've yourselves to blame if it's too long.
You should never have let me begin, begin …