These ballads are not in the books and are supplementary and created by AI based on the book content.
In the year of 1900, on a dark and fateful night,
In the heart of Pennywell Road, a tragic, gruesome sight,
Henry Milstead and Ellen, a couple torn by strife,
Their love had long since withered, replaced by bitter life.
Henry, once a humble shoemaker, now burdened by despair,
Ellen's face once filled with grace, now marred by lines of care.
Their humble home at 191, a witness to their strife,
A dwelling filled with sorrow, in the twilight of their life.
Their son, a witness to the storm, returned home late that eve,
To find his kin in silence, as night began to cleave.
Yet tension loomed like shadows, beneath their quiet facade,
Little did they know that night, would bring a tragedy so odd.
In their chamber, two beds stood, separated by their pain,
A gulf of unresolved issues, like a river through their vein.
Henry on the left, Ellen on the right, a chasm in between,
As silent as the grave they dug, where love had once been seen.
The son lay down with sisters, their dreams a distant shore,
While Henry and Ellen's troubled hearts, faced turmoil evermore.
Ellen, fueled by anger, let her curses freely flow,
With fists or words, it mattered not, the seeds of anger grow.
In the dimly lit room, their fate was sealed that night,
The son heard Ellen's voice, her anger taking flight.
But as the night grew deeper, and the candle's flame grew low,
The son succumbed to slumber, unaware of what would grow.
At dawn's first light, he awoke, with duty as his call,
But in the room, he found a sight that made his spirits fall.
Ellen still in silent sleep, her throat a gruesome sight,
The life had drained from her, extinguished in the night.
He left for work, with words exchanged, like any other day,
Unaware of his father's deed, the price he'd have to pay.
But at the factory gates, a truth he could not evade,
His father's confession, the awful truth displayed.
In hushed tones, his father spoke, of deeds he could not hide,
A murder in Pennywell Road, the truth could not be denied.
Their lives forever altered, by one tragic twist of fate,
Henry Milstead's burden, the weight of his dark state.
At the trial, justice rendered, a verdict cold and stern,
Guilty of his wife's murder, for which he'd have to yearn.
Yet in the end, reprieve was granted, his life would still go on,
Released from prison's confines, his past forever gone.