Mr. Murray the Mad
“Mr. Murray, Mr. Murray,
are you truly, surely mad?”
A head snapped up,
a window clapped shut,
and a boy,
chased after his mutt.
With a skip and hop,
Mr. Murray left his shop,
and approached a little girl
who deftly held a mop.
“Surely, truly,
as the birds do fly,”
was all Mr. Murray
deemed to reply.
The girl looked puzzled
she was quiet befuddled.
For whatever, oh, whatever
could Mr. Murray mean?
“Mr. Murray, Mr Murray,
I’m sorry to say,
your words make no sense.
Less sense than,
well,
waterless rain!”
“Hush, hush, my dear,
I’m in quite a hurry!
I must go retrieve,
my wife’s favorite curry.”
“Mr. Murray, Mr. Murray,
you must be mistaken!
For half a year’s time
her soul's been forsaken!
In the ground she went,
at Church Saint. Türsaken”
“Tutt tutt, buttercup,
off I must go,
before my wife shows.
She’ll be home
before I know!”
With a tip of his hat,
and a pat on her cap,
Mr. Murray left the girl,
to wonder
at the world.
“Mr. Murray, Mr. Murray,
how horrible and sad,
that you must be truly, surely,
terribly Mad.”
“Well, perhaps not mad,
just a tad bit sad.”