You never face up to what you really want to say ,
all clammed up, no mouth in your face,
wriggling all spastic,
tranced out quite drastic,
bones of elastic,
think your so fuckin' fantastic,
Mr E Man, mid-Atlantic.

The witches are up in the Screaming Woods,
cramming twigs down the throats
of loose-tongued liars,
and the ghosts of hanging murderers
dance in the flames of the fires,
to the snuff-music screams
of those loose-tongued liars,
Mr E Man, funeral pyres.

All hail the fallen angels of this world,
and the shattered innocence
that fires shards, of enlightenment,
deep into their souls and hearts,
and leaves them lonely,
and forever deeply marked.
Mr E Man, circling shark.

She was just a thick bimbo on a random road,
she had no idea where she was being led,
I took her home to my place, drilled holes in her head,
filled her up with cleaning fluid,
she knew she'd been left for dead,
me, I had another protein drink then went off to bed,
in the morning I kindly strangled her,
barely lucid, barely alive.
Mr E Man, high five.

Let me turn the voltage up, I like to see the muscle twitch,
let me sew your eyelids shut, with stinging suture stitch,
lash you hard with the flogging cat, give you epileptic fits,
come to you in the still of night,
and scare you out your wits,
carve you up, and scatter all the bits.
Mr E Man, I quit.