Plagues And Bacon Lyrics & Chords By Hail Mary Mallon

If in the obituary column, sniff it
It was written by the forks and knives of Mary Mallon
Fever in the stew, sorta buried in rabbits and boiled cabbage
Had a little lamb - it was average
Could'a been a Magdellan, Mary had a craft
It would ask her to master the oven of Manhattan's upper class
On a budget, lunched with the cemetery staff
Til her resume had slashed through the stomachs of the public
Everyone around you is dying
Everything you touch caught the pest
Imagine for a second the unrest
When the fruit of your labor is like a poison to the
Very employers you are laboring to impress
Queen Mary Midas, if gold is a rose-colored virus
Alive in the vilest environments around
Ladle in the soup
Feed you the spices in which you are later cooked

Knives don't cut in the kitchen
But yes those cooks might die
Tied to the same folk who loved ya
And then use blood for the pie
Sick don't look like it used to
And hearts can't eat off your fork
This goes out to the tragic
Cause Hail Mary Mallon wants more

She placed the trays on the pots and plates
Keep the goose and the gander and the possums laid
Heart is good as gone with no option, weighed
Whatever Mary carried when the doctors came
Coats on masked up orderly
Hellish fever formed from the pork and beans
Death came to dinner with New York's elite
A cup a milk a stick of butter and some quarantine
Mallon's talents, a balance of beasts born
From the typhoid cellulo' tell you to keep warm
Death in a petticoat peddle her sweet corn
To the butcher in the bowery and a felony feeds four
What cop? Want to tell you to keep clear
Manages sandwiches well and it breeds fear
On the bar near the bucket of cheap beers
It's your money or your life if you continue to eat here!

Mary don't fuck with the cake today.
Please don't fuck with the cake today!
[x4]

(Ay)
Not a pot luck
Got a unlucky pot where the ham hock wash up
Cram that slop down
Fifty cots in a sickly room
Each a pristine notch in her mixing spoon
Mary ain't a monster, a marvel of medicine
Innocently hid a bit headache in the venison. America
Might get bedside critical
Sweating in her X-eye, death by dinner bell

Indignance and diligence loudly, how she
Worked for the lawyers employing her proudly
Made 'em the medicine they stayed at home drowning
The fix is the Jones and Tyrone is the county
We know you mean well Mary, patience
There ain't enough will in the world that can save 'em
Good made of wood whittled down to the aphids
The danger is dead and buried at St. Raymond’s