Come and listen to a story 'bout a mom who's dead.
Her corpse wasn't biered; now she lives in her son's head.
She goads: "Son, slay!"
Not a groovy attitude.
This nut gets unwound, comes a bloodletting mood.

Goil, that is. Hacked throat. Testy, he.

Well, his skirt's hangin' so low; dress looks pretty fair.
A kinked bloke. . .bled. . .dead; get 'er outta there!
The dead gal and fortune are placed in the Ford when he
Slowly loaded up the trunk. Then, oozing fen for she.

Killed, that is. Sinks in pool, muddy car.

And then it's time to say "goodbye" to the dick, slinkin' in.
He traipses up the stairs to poke around. . .the shiv is in
He falls; the knifin' don't go slack.
Loon would croak pal, but she
Is saved by her helpmeet who snares this hostile "gal" that's he.

Nixed killin' that is. Sits in cell with mom's duds on.
Balls won't come back, now, that's clear.