Little Emily Sue was only but two,
when off with her finger she decided to do.
It hung from her hand, vein and tendon unleashed,
after cauterizing the wound, the bleeding it ceased.
She looked at her palm happy pinky was gone,
with the pain dying out it was time to move on.
She sharpened her knife with childish glee,
after placing pinky on mantle for all to see.
Emily Sue with crayon and paper in hand,
sat down by candlelight and mapped out her plan.
With ease and great pleasure and taking good measure,
she walked up to her mother and eyed her next treasure.
The innocent child handed over her art,
it went up on the fridge, the parenting part.
“Can I help you with baking,” she asked of her mother,
“I'll be quick with my hands and won't be a bother."
Emily watched as her mom chopped an apple,
she giggled and laughed at the thought of the grapple.
She took a small knife and slid from the counter,
and down with her fell her mothers right pointer.
Her mother stood shocked and let out a scream,
with red leaking out and polluting whipped cream.
Emily looked pleased and grabbed at the finger,
off to the mantle with treasure don’t linger.
A devious smile spread from right to left ear,
as she went to the shed before father could hear.
Her father he worked alone in their shack,
tinkering at cars to get his youth back.
She slid up to poppa and said with a grin,
“Daddy may I watch, you won’t hear a pin?”
Her father agreed and grabbed at a wrench,
she looked at his hand and hopped on the bench.
He tightened a nut and worked at a screw,
the timing was right and Emily knew.
He reached for his cup for a sip of his drink,
and lost his ring finger before he could think.
He let out a yip and she ran from the scene,
back to the mantle she had cut it off clean.
Her mother and father so tense with fear,
shouted for Emily “Where the hell are you my dear?”
They stumbled about mad, like lumbering giants,
rags covering their wounds inflicted by the defiant.
Emily Sue went and hid with the job almost done,
not realizing the trouble, only reveling in fun.
She crept up the stairs as shouts echoed below,
tiptoed to her brothers room and up to young Joe.
She looked at his face peaceful and small,
then down at his fingers she wanted them all.
That isn't the plan, now lets not be greedy,
only take the one, save the rest for the needy.
She slid out her knife and hummed a light tune,
sharp blade through his finger and out of the room.
The blood it did spurt but only for a minute.
his little body was tough and able to fend it.
She held his middle finger and skipped down the stairs,
right into open arms and her wildest fears.
Her mother and father with knife in hand,
held her down hard and took a stand.
With a dull pocketknife they stabbed at their daughter,
not realizing how or what this taught her.
When she awoke on a red mound of carpet,
she felt a great pain and started to vomit.
She looked at her palms and saw they were round,
her fingers were amputated, the stubs whittled down.
She looked at the mantle and started to smile,
there sat 13 jars, they’d been there a while.
She examined them closely and hummed a light song
all their fingers there floating, her plan hadn’t gone wrong.
She went into the kitchen and sat down to dinner,
her family welcomed her in with smiles and vigor.
She looked at their wounds and looked at their faces,
no hard feelings revealed from the day; no traces.
She looked to the fridge and at the scribbles of crayon,
she had etched all the fingers, this had always been her plan.
As she got older she never missed these thirteen,
for they were on the mantle and always meant to be seen.