Released: March, 1994
Recorded: Malahide, Co. Dublin, Ireland
The leg cutter has arrived,
Cutting legs at random.
Smiling and laughing as he goes (On his tip-toes…)
Merry at his work.
“Off with your legs!
Ha ha ha!”, he screams,
“Now the other one!
Do you like that?”
Leg cutter, Leg cutter,
He cuts legs.
Leg cutter Is a nutter.
Troreon Ogre Trollop, regurgitate.
Orgasmic slop, she masturbates.
Ogsidal sinep, maggot-ridden womb.
Urinal flaps of infertile doom.
“Tomorrow we will ruin the Christian Church!”
The Ugly Men were very happy.
Betrayed by flesh, they have a bone to pick.
Soon their actions were unholy, but persistent.
Billy the Holy Minstrel was unhappy
To be ejected onto blistering rocks.
Multitudes of the Christian Army will beg
For such a fate When we meet in unholy Conflict.
Birth of a disabled pervert, a beautiful dream,
Only the horned divels can love him.
Ocular protrusions bursting with pus,
Mounds of black slop, weeping its Olfactoral gaque.
No more Priests, No more Kings,
Only the warped stump Of the Filthy Old Man.
Chalices of blood,
Confession boxes of limbs,
A church so dark, Sick, warped, bent mind.
Crazy Priest hungry for repent.
Pale boy, needing love,
Priest that requires tender boy.
“Little bastard boy….. get under the water!”
The Mute-Boy whimpers his last gurgling sounds.
Watery gifts for the little boy.
Great oily Titan.
Stinking machine of Bludgeon.
Flattening heads for us.
The crusher’s equitous genocide,
Shows no discrimination.
Running only delays fate by seconds;
Its reign is supreme;
Everything is dead.
Peasants make grand victims,
Their faces disfigured,
By the blades he wields.
A man with a hump,
He kills with pride:
Murder urges all orgasms.
His gut tightens.
Ugly monkey-face peasants urge him on:
A tiny child realises life is short.
The child’s head easily
Bludgeoned from Tender Body.
Haitus, Land of the Crushers.
Hums of Grinders.
Rotten souls wither in urine and blood.
Disgusting screams of babies on spits,
Sustain the flames,
That burn the wretched twits.
Fools, Tender flesh, hastily ravaged.
Hark! The Butchering Knights March to Haitus,
Treacherous blasphemy they called it.
Poetry it was.
No option; altar goes.
Spilling the holy muck-savage’s trinkets.
They are dead,
Because their heads were chopped off.
Frittering their insect lives
Worshipping the whores that gave birth
One hundred gold pieces I would give
To see the Archbishop’s floundering despair
As he wrestles with total incomprehension.
His Beautiful Church,
Is a tattered shit-pile.
The Bishops arrive, a fanfare of horns.
To knout the little prick.
This contest is inevitable: boy can’t win.
Invented by the Mental Mongrels.
Huntsmen in their hauberks,
Shivering boy in rags, his feet shackled
Horn blows, contest begins,
Boy does not get very far.
Head numbed with blows,
Mace patterns his face.
The winners guffaw, and retire for rape
Before the next contest begins.
My father, they said,
Was a horse.
An equine creation I truly am.
But strangeness is no quality
For forgiving sinners.
No blessings will be found
For the defilers of
My precious sanctum.
Blood spews from rubble.
Can you see?
They flounced my churches.
They buggered my priests.
A rage-induced-lunatic I became
When I saw What They had Done.
Human excrement sullied the aesthetics
Of my church. I swore my hatchet would cleave scum
When I read the words, daubed there: “Bastards”.
Cankerous animals will grovel and beg
Holy eccentric wallops young children.
He drowns bold boys.
Trampling heads is a tremendous habit
Excelled in by this Wicked Preacher.
Rarely a crippled victim escapes
Fleeing stumpily o’er the moot.
Dark Robed Preacher will be The Bishop’s Ball Scratcher
When they meet the Hor-Hogs in battle.
Dark Robed Preacher Execute the Sinners.
Little boy, murdered so young,
Family are sad, but not enough,
(Haunted with visions of missing eyes.)
Uncomfortable smells troubled the coroner.
Leaving behind his miserable family
Tommy awakes, hoping it’s Heaven.
It is not.
It is the place were infants die again,
More slowly this time.
Tommy is led down the dark corridor
To his new home.
The hooded madman lives,
Bestial carnage ensues his horse,
Filthy-mongy-brain dribbles with insanity.
Hatchet in hand, the lunatic giggles.
The horror-monger destroys people.
Oh, how he hated the midgets in the village.
Rejected for his petty crimes,
The bastards will die, oh yes.
The midget-children will suffer first,
Then the midget-whores.
(Bitches are born from chemical accidents.)
Reeking of urine, the madman comes.
“Oh yes! I want to hear screams!
Children strewn about,
Yes! Limbs are missing, hair burnt from scalp,
(Oh Yes!) Oh, this is good!
Death to yis all!
I’ll burn yis all,
Yes! My brain is twisted.”
Let the Midget speak,
His exceptional words are unusually-wise.
Nostrils flared, hair matted with pus
The Midget vomits.
Oh how the midget suffered
At the hands of his daddy.
Evidence of awful tamperings.
Stab wounds mark his thighs.
Crusty wounds of the Pettifogger, speak thus.
Behind him, his pet Mite giggles.
The Mite looks up to the Midget,
Eyes glisten, love blossoms.
The Midget talks.
Fornication of the Bride begins,
Screams are loud, people are laughing.
Woman appears, limping and dizzy.
Blood, crimson, on her head.
The laughing grows intense.
The Midget talks wisely.
Released from the Dark Castle,
Black dawn, the Minge Mites scatter.
Yonder valleys, the Mites make people suffer,
The armies will be annihilated,
Their cadavers promptly digested.
Horns protrude from Hairy scalps,
Acidic saliva drips from twisted smiles,
Infants are quick; swallowed in one gulp.
The Bastard Foes are wary.
The Time will come for the Weak.
Towns will be crushed in minutes,
The Armies will die like pigs,
Their feeble weapons are nothing.
The Year of Our Master.
He arose to crush the fleeing infidels. `
With a mighty swoop the Living
He played with children
In a beautiful way.
Fatherly in all ways.
Master, show me your passions.
Express the needs of the shaded few.
They were flogged to the valley for 64 Decades.
Then the great slaughter took place.
He slaughtered for us.
We are his spew-springs.
Lovely little people are we.
Helping each other every day.
I hear grunts.
Grunts of perverts.
Men with toasted heads,
Melted beyond recognition.
This is the place were lunatics rot.
“To Hell with them all”,
The humped Gate Keeper screams.
His eyes are borrowed from Beelzebub.
Each door he checks with pride,
Large hand near crotch,
Watching his Creations of Satan.
He cries. Eyes light up.
Blood spews from ears,
The beast calls.
His mother’s dream,
Daddy’s little boy is insane beyond belief.
Humped madman dies.