Red rover, red rover, please send Death right over... ravish my virginal flesh!
Tis pity, my dearie, to leave Death so wearied,
a-gamboling over the grass!

Oh Death, my dark darling,
please spout forth a startling
torrent of blood with your scythe!

And cut my dark middle
that cries for a diddle
I beseech thee don't be such a cad!

A-mowing, a-mowing, my heart
Death's a-mowing
Thou art such a miserly wretch!

Who prefereth the whores
and the dark, sultry Moors
with no horse sense to murder my ass!

Penelope Peacup can often be found in the cobwebbed attic of her family's homeplace, a rambling Victorian manse at the top of the hill in her hometown, spilling her heart's vital essence onto the pages of her diary.

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