Peter Peter, son of Pete and Patty Peter— ring a bell?
The Peters— they grew the plumpest pumpkins around for the sell
We used to buy, to prize their pies— they had the flakiest crust
And fluffy pumpkin filling that had folks far and wide a lust

The pumpkin seeders that had the patch just downwind from the well
You know the well, the one that produced the questionable smell
At least until the whole thorough investigation was spurred
I can't believe 'bout the horrors of Peter you've never heard

My word, it's a right staggering story— you better slump in
Peter Peter, was a local pumpkin seeder— a bumpkin
A yokel quite vocal about the apple trees invasion
He had a slow drawl— a face that showcased the sun's abrasion
Peter was highly short tempered but was long drawn of backbone
Peter would often blow his gourd due to jacked testosterone
He swore he had two pennies but only held one to be shown

He had an uncommonly comely wife who wouldn't stay home
To Grace, Peter was a prick, so she sought any chance to roam
She'd spot an opportunity, and silently, off she'd race
Peter would find her out and about— it was quite commonplace
She'd stress, "I wasn't up to nothing," he'd shout, "Don't play in my face"
She'd swear, "I'm not lying, Petey— I just needed some head space"
He'd carve at her alibi— "That's what you wear to think, eh Grace?"
"You're a solid meter short on lace"— "You're a fucking disgrace"

Peter pummeled his wife to a pulp, he bruised and lumped her skin
Then he'd tell all the local growers,...