His schizoid personality
Fragmented at the age of eight
His grandmother brought him to me
For treatment, but it was too late

For he has tasted blood
And his mind- his mind is mud
And it’s black, oozing mud

His cannibalistic urges
Originated who knows where
I can’t make my diagnosis
He nauseates me, I don’t care

For he has made me sick
And his mind- his mind is shit
And in the black, a wicked wit

And if it wasn’t illegal
I’d cut his throat with a penknife
I’d hang his bones in my office
If it wasn’t immoral

For I have tasted blood
And my mind...