The Butcher, St. John
Speak not the name of the butcher St. John,
You'll wake in the morning and your limbs will be gone.
Ground into hamburger, made into meat,
Pressed into sausages, spicy and sweet.
Many people still come to buy of his wares,
He's allmost allways sold out, but nobody cares.
Though expensive, for the taste, the price can't be beat.
Too bad nobody knows what he puts in his meat.
He's carefull and picky, worse than misers with gold,
He knows just by looking, which ones to serve cold.
The plump ones are juicy, the skinny ones firm,
The young ones are allways served ground up with worm.
Bloody and cold are the ways of his mind,
And he smiles as he cuts his next meal, you will find.
So please lock your doors, and leave the lights on,
And don't even speak of the butcher St. John.