thirty one years in the making
trails of littered dead
from ohio to wisconsin
his trophies are their heads
at eighteen years of age
he made his first kill
invite him in for a beer
leave him never will
exhileration
dominant thrill
defy the weak
the addicting kill
stench horrid odor
rampant in his room
if his walls could talk
theyd tell tales of doom
littered limbs
scattered room to room
asystole fibrilation
to remove
the victims soul
hopes of consumption
his molesting as he drugs
crying slowly close your eyes
bloody soaked smelly rugs
now is time for you to die
gays minorites
satisfy his morbid kill
in his refrigerator
body parts he chills | 
