Little scorned outcast,
all grown now and strong
Finally found somewhere he could belong,
but little scorned outcast could not forget
the toil, the tears, the blood and the sweat.
First he came for father, old and weak,
took his shotgun and pointed at cheek
The trigger 'twas pulled, Daddy was no more
but there were more than he to come for.
Mother was next, humming in her chair,
when she saw him her eyes bulged in stare
The scarf she doth knit for beloved son
wrapped tight 'round her neck before she could run.
Brother was out, throwing hay in the field,
strong and broad, poor wretch would likely be killed
But nimble and quick, took rusted scythe in his hand
spilled brother's own blood on brother's own land.
Lastly was fair sister, slept by the fire,
a quaint pretty girl nonetheless fated for the pyre
Her innocent face free from her deserved guilt
the wretch took knife from the table and buried its hilt.
Finally free from burden of the past,
the poor, little outcast looked his last
at last complete in his vengeful plight
the wretch no longer; disappeared into the night.