The Butcher

A cut is as good as a rose my sweet
No gesture of love could be as neat
With a gun to your head
And hell at your feet
You can make this heart a hole

A Butcher must have a knife to hone
The skill in the slice a gorgeous tone
Slaughterhouse purity
He'll never sleep alone
Confessions don't cleanse a soul

There's no peace in an abattoir for pigs
Your bond is as strong as rotting twigs
There'll be no funeral march
No grave he gravely digs
Meat tastes better off the bone

The blade is metal devoid of grief
No sorrow offered and no relief
With his knife at your neck
His hell beneath
Even your hell won't be your own