They said his ma was sick of sin,
That any life was shunned from him,
And that from her his woe begins,
The thread, so fine, had snapped within.

One head, or two, or three, or more,
To hang and hold and spin from all
The string that swings above his door,
The bed-posts sport the skulled decor.

For he began to dig the graves
Of those whose souls were newly raised,
And from that day began his craze,
To scalp and stretch to suit his taste.

Two shins of bone were there to stand,
Four table-legs that stood on hands,
Emasculation was his plan,
To be no more, but less a man.

At home he kept his next of kin,
Now fashioned to a suit of skin,
At night he danced a dance within,
And longed the sex deprived of him.

The need for fresh things soon became
The one that overtook his brain,
Such need that made him kill and maim,
To keep his mother’s spirit tame.

Went Ed to town for antifreeze,
And when returned was found to be
Proud owner of some company,
With which he played and flayed with glee.

Back at the shop in broad daylight,
Frank Worden said ‘Now, this ain’t right,
The shop is locked and it’s not night,
And mother is nowhere in sight.’

So off he and the sheriff went
To search at Ed’s old residence,
Where both the men were welcomed whence
By Frank’s old ma minus the head.

Enough to turn the fearless wan,
without a word the search began
To find this spawn of Satan man,
But he was out and off the land.

Some other horrors soon entailed
A heart was soaking in a pale,
And in a box shut tight with nails
Were Mrs Worden’s entrails.

In some time soon they got to him,
And stuck him in the loony bin,
For he was far too gone within
To sit and suffer for his sins.