I still remember my very first victim
He lent me a hammer and died when I hit him.
The specialist diagnosed me a ‘psychopath’
Sadly she was later found drowned in the bath.
When I was older I was sent to a shrink
He died as well. He was strangled I think.
Now every weekend I’ll polish my gun
Put on my mask and head out to have fun.
I prefer to kill women, I kill them at night
I drag them down alleys where they scream and they fight
If I want to kill quietly I’ll use my big knife
There’s a notch on the handle for each taken life.
I’ll chop up my prey, small pieces I’ll take
A special reminder, a grisly keepsake.
Toes and eyeball, or long golden locks
Morbid mementoes which I keep in a box.
When I’ve had my fill I’ll dispose of the body
I do this alone, it’s a solitary hobby.
Rolled up in a carpet or dumped in a lake
I’ll comfort the family when I go to the wake.
My hero is Jack the Victorian Ripper
But I’m killing more people and I’m doing it quicker.
I can’t fight these urges so the corpses they mount
Police files record the vast body count.
Forensic teams search with dogs and with diggers
The number of dead has now hit triple figures.
But a wiley detective who’ been long on my tail
Has uncovered a clue which will send me to gaol.
So I’ll spend my last days locked up in a cell
And cometh the end, roast slowly in hell.
