theres a psycho killer out there, lurking in the woods
dressed to kill, and loaded with the goods
with a poison tip, to his tickling stick
for the taste of your blood, which he loves to sip
thers no sign of reason, for his unquenchable need
when the seed is your flesh on which he must feed
with no sign of mercy in eyes dark as black
you scarce feel the violence beneath his attack
he'll stalk through your dreams in nights dead and dire
with no sign of his steps but the smell of the fire