Lyrics Well If the Turkey's in the High-Chair, Where's the Baby? - Twitch of the Death Nerve

Well If the Turkey's in the High-Chair, Where's the Baby?

Herman Webster Mudgett, well mannered and mild
Little did they know he was a deviant child
A preoccupation with suffering and death
It was the birth of a murderous wretch
Skilled at deception, seduction as well
All his ideas were imported from hell
His deeds insured that his legend would grow
And history would know him as H H Holmes
Animal cruelty, an early sign
Cadaver dissection, a disturbed mind
He needed victims for his plans, he was a bigamist
Alone could sate his lust for long, he yearned to commit far greater wrongs
His mistress became pregnant, an unexpected bane
The poor wretch wants to be betrothed, a botched abortion ends them both
To build his lair he obtained land with fraudulence and tricks
His castle was a torture chamber, its purpose to trap helpless strangers
The cellars filled with acid vats and ovens for remains
Gas pipes for asphyxiation, air tight vault for suffocation
Dissecting tables, racks of surgeons tools
Dark hidden hallways, a labyrinthine maze
The Chicago fair brings an endless flow of visitors who aren’t easily traced
One by one they’re seduced, then before long disappearing, not to be seen again
Some lured to the vault, locked screaming inside
Sound proof walls dampen their last cries
Gas floods in, fists pound the door
They pass out and slump to the floor
More led down corridors with no end, scared prey to be stalked
Then once caught, thrust down hidden chutes to the cellar, for further abuse
After torture, at least slaughtered
Then disposed of in acid or cremated in the furnace
Bones mixed with waste and buried in haste
Some even sold as specimens
So many have died, a grim loss of life
Victims filled the rooms
The castle is their tomb