November, the life once led   infecter slips away subdued. Bury   the ash in the Bronx (Ms. Mary   Mallon) so only memories may   remain whilst endured through   infamy. But if conditions were   simple as being the way we appear   we would not have known the name   of bearer and aid in the expanse   of fierce disease. Disharmony   'tween the way which she appeared   and the malaise she caused through   a cause. From the shorelines of   great rolling greens, from   pressured tumultuous life they   came 'cross waters chance that   they'd just be. So had she, had   Mary 14. Turning the century she   had found purpose in delivering   fouled sustenance house-cooking   but twenty-two infections brought   light to patterns, grounds for   isolation set, executed and   recalled should sickness never be   spread through such means again.   But passionate paths rarely   redirect thus quarantine would   remain life quarters until fading   days. No soul would have asked for   such despairing fate. We can't   deny, can't deny she'd be rueful.   No, it was a birth right she would   not outlive. As they said and they   said and they said she was death   she'd speak out but she would not   outlive. No matter how much she   wished she'd simply be this is how   she'd exist.