Alice came to a fork in the road. "Which road do I take?" she asked.
"Where do you want to go?" responded the Cheshire cat.
"I don't know," Alice answered.
"Then," said the cat, "it doesn't matter."
Farley was an ill-tempered, cantankerous old bastard,
His own master,
And the man of the house... that very seldom would show laughter.
So one would suppose after the beatings he'd bludgeoned her with...
...That his wife had become numb to the hits,
From his thunderous fists.
But not numb in the sense she no longer felt his hands...
...More numb in the sense she'd turn away those who tried to help her stand.
And not numb in the sense that she never yelped or sang,
Over the welts that stang...
...But his consummate efforts devoured her -
In the clutches of this rabid wolf she became a helpless lamb,
Without a leg to stand.
A mere fallen star that glowed in the distance,
As her world was transformed from technicolor to monochrome in an instant.
But that first time he struck her,
It also choked her of the only pride she felt.
And that night she fell, but refused to retreat inside her shell...
...and issue any cries for help,
Instead she waited, to make sure this tyrant dwelled in a life of hell...
...So beside herself, she plotted and planned,
To greet his rotten demands,
With the firm reposte of her hands.
And unbeknown to this villainous raptor, she was filling with rapture...
...at the sheer thought me killing this bastard.
She tried for weeks,
Until eventually he was resigned to sleep...
...and mesmerised so deep,
He didn't even notice her dive to reach,
A hacksaw thats pristine silver blade shines with each,
And every thrusting stroke against his flesh, in the nights deceit.
An evil smile wryly creeps, across Alice's smiling features...
...As with the hacksaw held firmly,
She cuts through the limbs of this violent creature.
In the kitchen she sits and wickedly picks through flesh and bone,
With his head mounted upright on the table,
She had kept it cold, refusing to let him go...
Then suddenly, she thought she heard his booming footsteps cascading the stairs,
It was the way he had always done,
Its distinct sound had now made her aware,
So from her quaint worktop in the kitchen, Alice patiently stared...
...again clutching the hacksaw tightly, as she was unstable and scared.
The looming shadow grew closer,
And she felt the first signs of passing guilt...
...but as it drew towards the light,
She realised it was their boy, Ryan, only wrapped in quilts.
He dropped his glass of milk instantly,
Upon exposing his mother's confounding secret...
...the tumble glass was fumbled and smashed into more than a thousand pieces.
And Ryan burst into tears after confronting her with stark dismay,
As his eyes bled the words only his heard could say.
In the darkness lay his Father,
Decapitated of his limbs and his head,
But "Don't cry over spilt milk..." was the only thing that she said.
So one would suppose after the beatings he'd bludgeoned her with...
...That his wife had become numb to the hits,
From his thunderous fists.
But not numb in the sense she no longer felt his hands...
...More numb in the sense she'd turn away those who tried to help her stand.
And not numb in the sense that she never yelped or sang,
Over the welts that stang...
...But his consummate efforts devoured her -
In the clutches of this rabid wolf she became a helpless lamb.
No Use Crying Over Spilled Milk