Moon’s up. Potatomatoes look like drops of blood in the moonlight. Pass the cleaver, Finster. Mama’s hungry. Hockey-mask grin and a mouthful of red, I don’t ask names, I just stack the dead. Leftovers steaming, I eat what she leaves, Bones in my beard and blood on my sleeves. She points, I swing, she laughs when they scream, Ain’t no higher high than a midnight kill team. Unicorn horn and a bikini of slime, I harvest the meat and I waste no time. Faerie-dust jars and cemetery dirt, I pack it all pretty then I make it fucking hurt. Questionable purposes, baby, that’s me— I collect every cut for a recipe. Thrill of the kill, thrill of the knife, We dance in the dark and we drink up the life. She takes the prime, I take the rest, Two deranged killers on a murder quest. Thrill of the kill, raw and obscene, Nymph-E and Finster, the killing machine. I love the wet sound when the body lets go, The way the light leaves, the way the blood starts to flow. She twirls that cleaver like a goddamn queen, I drop to my knees in the bloody red scene. Ain’t quite dinner without a little viscera, She takes the parts she needs, then she feeds me the extra. I keep what I want and I gift him the scraps, He swallows it whole while the fairy-light snaps. Moon in the sky and the pots on the boil, We’re writing our names with blood in the soil. Hungry and sick and we never get tired, The more that they run, the more we get wired. One more, just one more— The night’s still young. Your laugh when the blade hits— That’s my favorite song. We were born for this mess, Thrill of the kill, thrill of the knife, We dance in the dark and we drink up the life. She takes the prime, I take the rest, Two deranged killers on a murder quest. Thrill of the kill—scream it unclean— Nymph-E and Finster, the killing machine. (The killing machine… the killing machine…) Save me a piece, Finster. I’m still collecting.
