Hack open the forgiving, hear their weakness as they beg.
Stumble through their hallways, where their children lay their head.
Ever so raspy, you sing them awake.
Peek into their cradles, smell their skin as they shake.
Lies spill from their jaws, and they throw up their hands.
They pray to their God, and to heaven they glance.
Their faces so precious, their tears so divine.
They look so pathetic, mankind is so blind.
I am their king, these children are mine.
Iâ€™ll show them pure hatred, one cut at a time.
After hours of playing, I look to the sky.
Mom wants me home before supper, so I must say â€œgoodbyeâ€.
So then I stand up, and I dust off my knees.
I adjust my glasses to behold my masterpiece.
The young ones still lay there, exhausted from screaming.
They were my instruments of torture, and every note had me teething.
I sang along to their screams, always on key.
I guess you could call this, my twisted melody.
Well now they are quiet, and my job here is done.
I have cut off their faces, my definition of fun.
So with needle and thread, I had made myself a crown.
That shall be placed upon my head, Iâ€™ll be remembered in this town.