Plagues and Bacon

[Verse 1: Aesop Rock] If in the obituary column, sniff it It was written by the forks and knives of Mary Mallon Fever in the stew, sorta buried in rabbits and boiled cabbage Had a little lamb - it was average Coulda been a Magdellan, Mary had a craft It would ask her to master the oven of manhattan's upper class On a budget, lunched with the cemetery staff Til her resume had slashed through the stomachs of the public Everyone around you is dying Everything you touch caught the pest Imagine for a second the unrest When the fruit of your labor is like a poison to the Very employers you are laboring to impress Queen mary midas, if gold is a rose-colored virus Alive in the vilest environments around Ladle in the soup Feed you the spices in which you are later cooked [Hook: Rob Sonic] Knives don’t cut in the kitchen But yes those cooks may die Tied to the same folk who loved you And then used blood for the pie Sick don’t look like it used to And hearts can't eat of your fork This goes out to the tragic Cause hail mary mallon wants more [Verse 2: Rob Sonic] She place the trays on the pots and plates Keep the goose and the gander with the possum played A heart as good as gone and no option weighed Whatever Mary carried when the doctors came Coats on masked up orderly, "Hah" Hellish fever formed from the pork and beans Death came to dinner with New York's elite A cup a milk a stick of butter and some quarantine Mallon’s talents, a balance of beasts born From the typhoid Cellulose tell you to keep warm Death in a petty coat peddle her sweet corn To the butcher in the bowery and a felony feeds four What cop? want to tell you to keep clear Manage your sandwich isn’t well and it breeds fear On the bar near the bucket of cheap beers Its your money or your life if you continue to eat here! [Aesop Rock & Rob Sonic] x 4 Mary, don't fuck with the cake today Please don't fuck with the cake today [Verse 3: Aesop Rock] Not a pot luck Got a unlucky pot where the ham hock wash up Cram that slop down Fifty cots in a sickly room Each a pristine notch in her mixing spoon Mary ain't a monster a marvel of medicine, I Innocently hid a bit headache in the venison, america Might get bedside critical Sweating in her X-eye, death by dinner bell [Verse 4: Rob Sonic] Indignant and diligence loudly, how’d she Work for the lawyers employing her proudly She made them the medicine they stay at home drowning The fix is the Jones and Tyrone is the county We know you mean well Mary, patience There ain't enough will in the world that can save them Good made of wood widdled down to the aphid The danger is dead and buried at St. Raymond’s