Little Ruthie pretty girl,
Pretty face and pretty curl;
Apple of her parents’ eyes,
But she told such great big lies.
“Who hurt baby in his crib?”
“Not me, mummy,” Ruth did fib;
“Who set fire to the bed?”
“Not me, daddy,” Ruthie said.
“Who poked puppy in the eye?”
Ruthie smiled and said “Not I”;
“Who hurt kitty, left her maimed?”
“Not me, not me,” Ruthie claimed.
‘Till one day she went too far,
With her little self-waged war;
Ate her mother’s favourite cake,
Then excuses tried to make.
But this was some special bread,
Yummy, sure, but left her dead;
For mum and dad were in a whirl,
Had tired of their darling girl.
So they hatched a little plan,
Took some poison in a can;
Baked it in her favourite dish,
Watched her eat it, made a wish.
Saw her buried, feigned their grief,
When secretly they felt relief;
For all along they knew the truth,
All about their little Ruth.
The moral: if you lie a lot,
Just be careful, don’t get caught;
Take good stock of what you say,
Ruth’s fate may be yours one day.