Rickety Tickety Tin

About a maid I’ll sing a song
Sing rickety tickety tin
About a maid I’ll sing a song
Who did not have her family long
Not only did she do them wrong
She did every one of them in, them in
She did every one of them in

Her mother she could never stand
Sing rickety tickety tin
Her mother she could never stand
And so a cyanide soup she planned
The mother died with a spoon in her hand
And her face in a hideous grin, a grin
Her face in a hideous grin

She weighted her brother down with stones
Sing rickety tickety tin
She weighted her brother down with stones
And sent him down to Davy Jones
All they ever found were some bones
And occasional pieces of skin, of skin
And occasional pieces of skin

One morning in a fit of pique
Sing rickety tickety tin
One morning in a fit of pique
She drowned her father in the creek
The water tasted bad for a week
And we had to make do with gin, with gin
We had to make do with gin

She set her sister’s hair on fire
Sing rickety tickety tin
She set her sister’s hair on fire
And as the smoke and flames rose higher
She danced around the funeral pyre
Playing a violin, ‘olin
Playing a violin

One day when she had nothing to do
Sing rickety tickety tin
One day when she had nothing to do
She cut her baby brother in two
And served him up as an Irish stew
And invited the neighbours in, ‘bours in
And invited the neighbours in

And when at last the police came by
Sing rickety tickety tin
And when at last the police came by
Her little pranks she did not deny
To do so she would have had to lie
And lying she knew was a sin, a sin
And lying she knew was a sin

My tragic tale I won’t prolong
Sing rickety tickety tin
My tragic tale I won’t prolong
And if you do not enjoy my song
You’ve yourselves to blame if it’s too long
You should never have let me begin, begin
You should never have let me begin