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Well Mary was a lass |
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From the lower class |
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She was an Irish emigree |
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When she arrived in New York |
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In a kitchen she found work |
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Cooking meals in the Bowery |
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In that kitchen Mary baked |
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and never took a break |
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and the people wolfed it down |
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But bellies growled |
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more than they should |
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From eating all they could |
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'Til they were buried in the ground |
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Oh Mary, Typhoid Mary |
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Your kitchen wasn't clean |
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The dead are dead I reckon |
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because they asked for seconds |
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Your kitchen wasn't clean |
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The city was scared |
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And began to despair |
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Where could this plague |
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come from so crude? |
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And the cops began to wonder |
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Why all those gone asunder |
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had eaten Mary Mallon's food |
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So like a crook she was sought |
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and Mary was caught |
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The charge she did not understand |
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Her stools were tested |
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And Mary was arrested |
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If only she'd washed her hands |
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Oh Mary, Typhoid Mary |
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Your kitchen wasn't clean |
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The dead are dead I reckon |
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because they asked for seconds |
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Your kitchen wasn't clean |
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In the hands of the state |
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she died in thirty eight |
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The advice her survivors left - |
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If a meal makes you faint |
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Then make a complaint |
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And ask to see the chef |
