Marta made the fudge,
she had done for years,
the bakery sold out every day,
those who missed out left in tears

Local news had done reports,
the paper had several spreads,
Marta, the town celebrity,
her fudge outsold all breads

Marta learned at mother’s side,
the recipe her Gran’s,
she made the fudge all alone,
away from prying eyes and fans

Then Becky join the bakery staff,
claiming she was the best,
Becky, barely nineteen, thought
she knew more than the rest

I have my own recipe, Becky said,
It’s totally delicious–wait and see
Marta wouldn’t let her near her, said
Get the hell away from me

Next day, Becky arrived,
with a large foil-covered plate,
Everybody–come try my fudge–
you’ll love it–I can’t wait!

The staff each took one piece,
oohed and aahed with each bite,
but Marta stood away from them,
full of venom, hate, and spite

Come on, Marta–just one bite–
you’ll like it if you try,
but Marta grabbed her sharpest knife,
stabbed Becky in the eye