Some Ways may spit one out midst worlds where natural light is sparse to null and difficult to come by at all, and other natural or unnatural forces power the exchange of energy. As I have dubbed in my non-fictitious writings, these worlds are "Night Worlds" and tend to be the most distinct and queer from more earthly ones.
It was on one such world I found myself trolling the streets of upper Newundon when I stumbled upon an odd sort of school for younglings, mayhaps a nursery or orphanage, or some mix of the three. The Children therein played a song on their tiny tuning forks, a miniature model that mature specimens used to confer with me. I had them play the thing three times to catch the words, and here, your loyal Tititictilitics now transcribes, translated into a written tongue. Bon Appétit.
Who was the one who killed Miss Mary Jane, whose fine house sat at Newcastle Lane, past the jarred door, past the red stain; who was the one who killed Miss Mary Jane?
I was watching the door for whom I adore, waiting for slight sight of some slender form, when that's when I heard it, shocked me, abhorred it, to whom 'ould have ignored it, a call of a shrill silver scream?
From a-cross the way, or least so I would say, the sound sounded from where my love lived, a ways from here, yet not far nor near; I sprint'd for her abode.
Bloody, I knelt; wine as looked if spelt, with a red tone flood from her neck. A gash there inlaid, and there did she lay, my love cold and pale of pale skin'ed.
I wept and I cry, a watery eye, that last till the men in blue found me. They each looked down, passed flasks around, and then, they a' cuffed me, took me down, to bars underground, and said I was the one who a kilt her.
Now I lie too; as I ponder I do, and say I'm not the man who killed her. My mind, insane, my heart, in pain, leaves me with one wish, one soul regret:
Who was the one who ended my love, and love not the man who bled my dove, for some man, some lame, who as yet unnamed, took the life of Miss Mary Jane.
Who was the one who killed Miss Mary Jane, whose fine house sat at Newcastle Lane, past the jarred door, past the red stain; who was the one who killed Miss Mary Jane?