This poem is based on the true story of George Cudmore, an ambitious idiot.
He had a wife and loved her,
Maybe for a year or so,
Until Sarah came a calling,
And poor Grace, she had to go.
Now it's a risky business murder,
Not as easy as you think,
But for Sarah's touch he'll risk it,
For her skin that's soft and pink.
Why she wants him he can't fathom,
Not a handsome man is he,
But she loves him with her body,
So by God he will be free!
Oh rat catcher George,
He knows the score,
With poisons he's the best,
But getting Grace to swallow some,
Will surely be a test.
So he dribbled arsenic in her tea,
It only made her ill,
When she cried in pain,
To his damn shame,
He fed her poisoned pills.
With a burning throat and a raging thirst,
His dying wife fought on,
'til with growing fear and panic
George did call on Sarah Dunn.
Came she shakily to her lovers aid,
Hiding deep her shame and guilt,
To administer more poison,
Hid in roasted fruit and milk.
Grace succumbed at last, but it was clear,
Who had done this dreadful thing,
And soon the pair were locked up tight,
George a-feared they both would swing.
What a yellow toad,
What an evil snake,
Sarah's guilt he did proclaim,
Saying she alone did the curse'd deeds,
He was innocent of blame.
But the truth did out and the judge decreed,
She should live, and he would die,
And 'for a thousand cheering people
Bad old George was hung on high.
But now twists the tale in an eerie way,
After many years passed by,
Bits of George's skin,
Tanned and tidied up,
Caught a keen librarian's eye.
How this came to pass,
We might never know,
But I'd recommend a look;
At the killer who was caught and bound,
And was truly brought to book.
