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...