The Mouring Poem Word I Cannot Hope To Spell

Miss Mary Mac, Mac, Mac, all dressed in black, black, black
Her silver buttons, buttons, buttons fall down her smokey back, back, back
She asked her mother, mother, mother, if she was proud, proud, proud
To see her baby, baby, baby in this dark, cold shroud, shroud, shroud
And she said "Yes, Yes, Yes, my dear's the Best, Best, Best."
"Please don't you jest, jest, jest, this isn't just a test, test, test!"

Mary wanted to fly, fly, fly, up to the sky, sky, sky
Most nights she'd cry, cry, cry, family flowing by, by, by
And then she'd stare, stare, stare, up to the air, air, air
And wondered if, if, if that woman cared, cared, cared
Her sisters knew, knew, knew what Mary went through, through, through
What could they do, do, do? They felt it, too, too, too
For every day, day, day, in some sick way, way, way
Their mother laughed, laughed, laughed and still stayed gay, gay, gay

So Mary took, took, took from Father's nook, nook, nook
A little book, book, book and then she shook, shook, shook
For she read there, there, there, that under the stair', stair', stair'
Father kept a gun, gun, gun because he "cared", "cared", "cared"
And Mary took that gun, gun, gun at a quarter to one, one, one
And then went BANG, BANG, BANG, and the job was done, done, done.