Don't ask me, guv. I was going to write a pastoral scene, heavy on cuddly lambs and fluffy bunnies, until Musey McMuseface grabbed the keyboard and grimmed all over it. Between you and me, I think the guy needs therapy...
Down by the withered tree
The grass no longer grows
No flower shows a bloom
The birds no longer sing
Since Mary met her doom
Down by the withered tree
Once stood a mighty oak
With boughs of verdant green
Where Mary often walked
When she was but sixteen
Down by the withered tree
From on the stoutest branch
The hangman's noose unfurled
And Mary Ann McBride
Took leave of this cruel world
Down by the withered tree
These many years have passed
The witch hunts long forgot
Yet time itself stands still
Upon this bitter spot
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