I didn’t break the dirt,

But I chiselled the name,

And hers framed a face cast aside

By our folly and shame

Molly the fatherless

Was done wrong by all of us knaves

Who buried her backwards

To keep Heaven’s peace from her grave

But I carved it up pretty,

To beckon your blackbird to weep.

So soulfully your sole companion

Could mourn you to sleep.

She scowled in the streets

As her scars drew the scorn of the town,

Ruined by rumours of witchcraft

Til she hit the ground.

The drunks of the herd

Claimed the crone cast a curse on the beer,

And her blackbird would sing a sour death

Upon all who could hear

I never believed,

But I buried my fear in the crowd,

Who were thirsting to turn the Trent red

Just to watch Molly drown

Til she laughed her last curse

As she struck the grave first

So turn ‘em all sour, sugar,

Turn ‘em all sour.

Turn ‘em all sour, sugar,

Turn ‘em all sour.

Turn ‘em all sour, sugar,

Turn ‘em all sour.

Turn ‘em all sour, sugar,

Turn ‘em all sour.