I’ve been trying to hide me crime
For so very long.
Mr. and Mrs. Fields
Were me only witnesses.
Day after day I’ve been imprisoned
Before a portrait of them
With most disapproving smirks
Upon their stern unhappy visages.
It’s been me most accursed lot
To have their portrait
As me only punishment.
I see it as what ‘American Gothic’
Must be like in Hell.
In the dead of night,
I awoke to me ultimate torment.
The Fields’, in the painting,
Had both turned to Skeletons.
Now I can truly never know repose.