Posted on 2009-10-31

This is the tale of the Murderous Hurst,
whose victims with horrid deaths were cursed
since Hurst was a madman, a killer indeed,
who slaughtered all creatures within thousand feet.

He heaved his axe, he wielded his dagger,
some people he had from steep stairways stagger.
Others he'd off with poisoned café;
still others in acid he would then sauté.

He loved best of all to shoot them quite dead -
a bullet here and there and two in the head.
Or else he would cut their wee little throats
unless he would smother them with his great-coats.

He'd strangle with ribbons of muslin and silk
for he had a fancy for things of that ilk.
Some people he clubbed o'r the head with a chair
whilst others he'd choke on their own cut-off hair.

His favourite method, howe'er, was to drown,
for above all else, he loved to put down
his foot on his poor victims' broad, muscled necks
(unless they were of the opposite sex).

Thus Darcy, his latest, penultimate prey,
drowned, dead and pale in the pond he did lay.
To his corpse clung the algae, his features were blue.
A woman's shout rang out, 'this cannot be true!'

'I know who you are, Hurst, and this goes to far -
you've killed now my husband - I'll put you in tar!
You can kill everyone but this husband of mine -'
Thus Hurst had to silence the poor Caroline.

Alack, of his victims, she was the last.
For Lou wasn't happy that her sister had passed.
Her husband in so many pieces she'd chop.
And then, to be busy, she took over his job.