He’s got a long knife, takes life,
Dressed as a crone.
He’s gonna slay now, faux frau,
The blade is honed.

Bates, ill from mum-whack, matricide,
Sweet Janet was speared then died.

He’s got a sharp blade; he’s made
Up like a dame.
He’s gonna carve strong; it’s wrong—
“She” feels no shame.

Bates, ill from bump-off matricide--
Mom is sec: she’s sere and dried.

He feels as though
He’s mom, and so
He isn’t good--
Ain’t understood he’s she.
After “she” slew,
He grumbled: “Euw!”
And added: “You killed, shame! mommy!!”

He’s got a long knife, no wife,
Dressed as a crone.
He’s gonna slay now, knows how--
Birds he’s deboned.

Bates, filled his mummy, who’s now dried;
Though she’s dead, he hears her, snide.

He feels as though
He’s got to go
And do no good;
He shouldn’t be a she.
After “she” slew,
What he must do
Is sink the Ford filled with Ms Leigh.

He’s got a sharp blade; he’s made
Up like a dame.
It’s not a sarong, though long. . .
No fashion claim.

Bates, ill from doing matricide,
Now the poor boy’s brain is fried.

He’s had a wrong life, much strife,
Living “alone.”
He’ll go away now, a frau,
Sent to a home.