There once were two sleazy old maids
Who lived in a house once refined.
Their treasures still sharp, rusty blades
Meant to stab, prod, push as designed.
Relentless pleas, ignored with anger,
Young corpses, boxed, bent enshrined.
Each maid had a favourite hanger
And used towels left quickly behind.
Tools of the trade as some would say;
Tools designed to hook and snare,
To pull each child from dark to day
To end before a breath of air.
Lost dreams replaced by brutal wails,
As screams become a source for tales
Of bloody deeds done to those who dread
The tools of those who make things DEAD.
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