On Mondays murder children, little girls and boys
I put my hands around their throats till they don't make a noise
Tuesdays torture animals, pluck off small birds wings
Watch them as they bleed to death, then they don't sing
Wednesdays I defecate on the priest's front door
If the priest he does complain, I just do it some more
Thursdays I Molatov the local orphans home
Love those little orphans, charred down to the bone
