Mary Bell, Mary Bell,
Child’s play from hell….
Two tots, sent to rot,
in a Scottish dell….
Are their mothers free?
To go gallantly
and dance the fields and stream?
Or are their hearts still caged
by your thoughtless rage?
Your own life trapped in an endless maize…
You say now that your name’s the game,
Hiding your own daughter away.
But what if other hellyuns came,
passing her to the grave?
And what if after, in the end,
they carved her chest with the initial “M,”
for murder, Mary, or mayhem?
Would you feel the same?
Your thoughtless mother still to blame?
Was that the reason for the “M?”
Mother, may I?
Don’t get me wrong,
for our sympathy exists,
and we are not oblivious
that your mother was the shits.
But all in all, I must ask this:
Why did you cut that little boys penis?