I show my tongue it's a color of dung,
The guards are all asleep.
I can only scare, and bite if caught unaware,
There are many half dead in the heap.
It's really what I do, make people stew,
But I cook my meat really rare.
Nobody in the middle of the night,
Should expect anything fair.
You can scream and howl, a black owl,
Will be used as a vocal gag.
He does more in your throat, a coat
Of blood will be left on the rag.
You'll be in my freezer a lot, and the pot,
You'll simmer to a nice taste.
You'll feel my teeth gnawing and tearing,
Teasing the flesh into paste.
