About a maid I'll sing a song, sing rickety-tickety-tin, Rpt First Bit
Who didn't 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

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

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

 She set her sister's hair on fire, rickety-tickety-tin
And as the smoke and flame rose higher
 Danced around the funeral pyre
 Playing a violin, Etc.

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

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

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

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

The irish ballad