The 99 Poem Challenge
Fox-Trot-9

38. Poe's Style (Gothic) — Lizzy Borden Took an Axe

Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty-one.
—Anonymous Children's Rhyme

Look here, kiddies, pay attention to my yarn of Hell's detention;
   You have heard your parents mention why you don't
Ever ever strive to copy how I slaughtered mine so sloppy
   With a hatchet (choppy choppy), when in wont; *
   I will show you why you don't and why you won't.

Waking from the deepest slumber, from which minutes have no number,
   Out of bed, I woke up ready for the job;
Reaching out I snuffed the candles, slipping on my favorite sandals,
   While I gripped upon the handle's grating knob,
   When it creaked and gave my heart a throb.

With my mother sound a-sleeping, now the time was ripe for keeping
   To my secret silent creeping in the house;
Looking to my mother's bedroom, where I'll make that place her dead-room,
   I resolved to reach the shed-room like a mouse,
   Where I found the hatchet, stripping off my blouse.

Blouse and dress and all my clothing filled me up with so much loathing,
   For the promise of a marriage was a lie;
Injuries and endless troubles buried all my hope in rubbles
   Of abuses when she nubbles me—but why? **
   Now, however, I would make that hussy die!

When I reached the open study, where I threw my clothes all muddy,
   Then appearing in her bedroom with the axe
(Heavy in my clutching fingers) hanging where the mischief lingers—
   While my father (couched) malingers to relax,
   Here inside her room, I gave her forty whacks!

Up and down in forty wallops, struck her head to mushy dollops,
   Till her brains resembled scallops busted in;
Breathing hard, I viewed the broken noggin better left unspoken,
   Hoping Father had not woken up therein
   On the couch below the room where I have been.

But, despite a deed so violent, everything remained so silent;
   All I heard were deep pulsations of my heart
Drumming to the dreadful lyric of a sweet revenge so pyrrhic ***
   In th' instinctive swings of smashing heads apart;
   This I smiled at, thinking this a work of art.

Then towards my sleeping father, snoring loudly (what a bother!)
   On that blasted couch I'd rather set ablaze,
But my senses tell me better; here I saw him with his sweater,
   Sweating like an Irish setter in a daze, ****
   Where I'll be the one to end his idle days!

So I raised my axe, aligning it upon the barren lining
   Of his skull for redesigning; then I struck,
Turning brains to mushy dollops with each swing of forty wallops,
   Till his brains resembled scallops in the muck
   Of the blood and gore without it getting stuck.

Then I saw what I have done and gave my father forty-one and,
   After I observed the bloody scene I made,
Over to a chair reclining—sleeping on the cushioned lining
   Of the chair—, I swooned divining of the blade,
   Dripping blood and guts in all directions splayed!

But between the realms of dreaming, caught within an inner screaming,
   I was damned in th' un-redeeming flames of Hell,
Where I'll spend eternity in such a grave fraternity in
   Pain for such iniquity, in here to dwell;
   Such became my fate upon the tolling bell.

Now you know the total story of this double-murder gory,
   Spoken in an oratory from your host;
Now you know that no redemption comes from such a vile exemption
   From the rules of pure preemption for the lost;
   Now you know the meaning of the chant you boast:

"Lizzie Borden took an axe and gave her mother forty whacks and,
   After she observed the bloody scene she made,
Over to her pop reclining, sleeping on the leather lining
   Of the couch, she stood maligning; and the blade
   (Dripping blood) she threw away and never paid!

"Then she saw what she had done and gave her father forty-one and,
   After she observed the bloody scene she made,
Over to a chair reclining—sleeping on the cushioned lining
   Of the chair—, she swooned divining of the blade
   Dripping blood and guts in all directions splayed!

"And between the realms of dreaming, caught within her inner screaming,
   She'll be damned in un-redeeming flames of Hell,
Where she'll spend eternity in such a grave fraternity in
   Pain for such iniquity, in there to dwell;
   Such became her fate upon her tolling bell."

(To be continued...)

A/N: Poe's Style (a.k.a. Gothic) poetry is based on the poems of Edgar Allen Poe; you can thank Figgy for this style, since she came up with it. ( ^_^ ) Anyway, Poe's poetry is dark and brooding, dream-like, as it has quite a few references to other-worldly things like death, ghosts, folklore and stuff like that, and evokes the passing seasons, most notable autumn and winter. The setting for his poetry are at night usually. That's about as much as I can tell about Poe's style, which covers a whole range of poetic forms. This particular peice was inspired by Poe's "The Raven," though it's not an exact parody. It's kind of like a Poe-inspired ballad.

* Wont = (adj.) inclined.
** Nubble = (v.) to beat with the fist.
*** Pyrrhic = (adj.) achieved at excessive cost.
**** Irish Setter = (n.) a breed of setter (dogs) from Ireland.

Meter: Trochaic octameter & hexameter
Rhyme:

Line 1: a-a
Line 2: (a)-b
Line 3: c-c
Line 4: (c)-b
Line 5: b