A ballad:
Her blood runs across the cold wooden floor
Wedded husband infested with madness
Violent banging on the wooden door
Through his veins a sense of gladness
A broken heart turned sour in dreadful hate
Dead eyes hold unshed tears of lone sorrow
Crimson liquid oozing their final fate
A life is impossible to borrow
The gentle whispers of her final words
Murder, murder now tweet the morning birds
