Mary, Mary, quite contrary
How does your garden grow? 
Silver bells and cockle shells
And pretty maids all  in a row

Mary, Mary, quite contrary 
Where do your bells come ftom?
Musicians of the wild hunt faerie
With bone flutes and skin drums.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary 
Where did your cockle shells come from?
From long ruined Glory 
Where the Spanish fleet did succumb

Mary, Mary, quite contrary
Whose pretty maids encircle your garden?
They are no queen or king’s Equerry
But souls trapped by my roots with no pardon.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary
What sort of being be thee?
My father a green man among the baneberry
My mother the lost heart of a banshee.

[Elizabeth Davis is a second generation writer living in Dayton, Ohio. They live there with their spouse and two cats — neither of which have been lost to ravenous corn mazes or sleeping serpent gods. they can be found at deadfishbooks.com when they aren’t busy creating beautiful nightmares and bizarre adventures. Their work can be found at The Initialization of Briar Rose, From The Yonder 4, and Yay! They’re Here!]