Oh, there’s that slay belle shivvin’,
No quarter givin’—got two
Personalities melded;
He’s a slay guy who’s gelded, by who[m]?
It’s mom—when she comes callin’,
It’s appallin’ what he’ll do:
He’ll get up in her vestments;
He’s a slay guy whose chest’s ’reft of two.

Rip ’em up, rip ’em up, rip ’em up, then go,
Come back as a beau,
Go dump ’em in the swamp:
No one will know.

Rip ’em up, rip ’em up, rip ’em up as “ma’am”. . .
Looks kinda like gram.
These knifings are wrong,
Yet so long he’s been doing them as a dam.

He seeks the knife and clothes “she,”
Then blood red-rosy sheds he.
Behavior is repellent;
He is not a real swell gent, it’s true.

It’s a mirth day hardly
When he’s in a harmer way,
And his victims’ lives he’s ending
In their motel stay.
He’ll be shivving because he longs to shiv.
Well, maybe if his pop
Hadn’t been offed by his mom
Who made pop drop. . . . . . .

[sound of drops of strychnine being put into coffee]

He would have had in his life
A male figure, a guy,
And to mother he’d not have an
Incestual tie.
As a consequence the guy sublimates
His longing for some swives
And drives in his phallic-shape knives
He’d used on birds to end birds’ lives.