Ed Gein

There's a gruesome scene
Made here by Ed Gein
He's cooking up the remains
Of his victims once again
He hears his mother's voice
In his head, he has no choice

Digging his mother from the grave
Putting her into bed that day
Plagued with schizophrenia,
He was made of dementia
Shrunken heads upon the door
There were old bones on the floor
He made lamps out of spinal cords
All his victims he thought were whores

Skinning off the flesh from the bone
In the privacy of his home
Under the full moons he wears the mask
Howling, and dancing, drumming fast
Ruthless psychopath, burn in hell
How could one live with that smell?