Martha’s Final Mass (A Ballad)
This morning Martha came alone
in floral dress and hat
and made her way to third-from-front,
the place she always sat.
She’d never missed a Sunday mass
though pushing sixty-eight
and never failed to put a ten
inside the tithing plate.
I don’t recall her being ill
or looking frail and old
and can’t believe she’s lying there
so rigid, still, and cold.
I’d watched her drink the holy wine
prepared by Father Brown.
A moment later, all I saw
was Martha falling down.
Some people ran. Some others screamed.
Her limbs began to twitch.
She wriggled like a drowning rat
expiring in a ditch.
“At least she died inside a church.
That makes her sort of blessed,”
I thought until I later heard
that Father Brown confessed.
He’d long complained about the way
she fell asleep and snored
throughout the years he’d tried to teach
about the loving Lord.
Today he brought some cyanide
to slip in Martha’s wine,
and now the lady’s got no chance
of reaching sixty-nine.
Horror Sleaze Trash 