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Peter Peter
Peter Peter, son of Pete and Patty Peter— ring a bell?
The Peters— they grew the plumpest pumpkins around for the sell
We used to buy, to prize their pies— they had the flakiest crust
And fluffy pumpkin filling that had folks far and wide a lust

The pumpkin seeders that had the patch just downwind from the well
You know the well, the one that produced the questionable smell
At least until the whole thorough investigation was spurred
I can't believe 'bout the horrors of Peter you've never heard

My word, it's a right staggering story— you better slump in
Peter Peter, was a local pumpkin seeder— a bumpkin
A yokel quite vocal about the apple trees invasion
He had a slow drawl— a face that showcased the sun's abrasion
Peter was highly short tempered but was long drawn of backbone
Peter would often blow his gourd due to jacked testosterone
He swore he had two pennies but only held one to be shown

He had an uncommonly comely wife who wouldn't stay home
To Grace, Peter was a prick, so she sought any chance to roam
She'd spot an opportunity, and silently, off she'd race
Peter would find her out and about— it was quite commonplace
She'd stress, "I wasn't up to nothing," he'd shout, "Don't play in my face"
She'd swear, "I'm not lying, Petey— I just needed some head space"
He'd carve at her alibi— "That's what you wear to think, eh Grace?"
"You're a solid meter short on lace"— "You're a fucking disgrace"

Peter pummeled his wife to a pulp, he bruised and lumped her skin
Then he'd tell all the local growers, "She's just such a lumpkin"
That "She could trip and fall walking through a field fallow of yield"
"A patch with no pumpkins" those were the kinds of lies he would wield

Was a classic case of brand-new day same old round-the-clock chase
Neither one could keep up— it was an unsustainable pace
Peter growing tired of trying to keep Grace based, in place
Told her, "If there's a next time, I'll beat you dead, the only trace
That you were ever even here, ever existed will be
My yearly yield growing by an average of at least three"

One day Peter caught her scheming with your third cousin Skeeter
You remember cousin Skeeter, don't you, the fire eater?
Anyway, where was I, what was I saying, oh yeah, Peter
Peter dragged Grace back to the patch and oh boy, did he beat her
He beat her 'til she petered out, with her flesh and blood a blur
He called her a whore amongst many unrepeatable slur

"What do you have to say for yourself?" "Look what you made me do"
"I would never have had to do this shit if it wasn't for you"

Grace stayed quiet, demurely she drained to white amongst orange
"I told you what would happen— the edict wasn't up for infringe"
Sure, she was bluffing— he pressed, "Come on now, even the score— winge"
Grace still— said nothing— Peter gave her a spur— Grace slowly slumped
Her blood started pooling around, in her curly hair it clumped

As her cooling blood soaked into the ground, Peter planted seed
I won't say what happened next, just know it was a dirty deed
At the end of the depravity, of which I will not tell
Peter crammed Grace, piece by piece, into a hollowed pumpkin shell
All the while calling her a bitch, a whore, a street-walking skank

He stashed said Grace packed pumpkin shell— down the well it slowly sank
And that's where he kept her, well, until the well started to stank

The feds came and searched the wells depths from its head to its casing
In his record-growing pumpkin patch, Peter's heart was racing
And though their complete and utter ineptness securely crept
Though some things were certainly under the braided carpet swept
Peter Peter, pumpkin seeding wife beater, was locked away
For twenty-five to life and that's where he remains to this day

#wordplaypoetry #nurserycrimes #rhyme #peter #life #storyline #fall #autumn #spookyseason
© danie_af