anthony S
11-26-2007, 03:19 PM
The song of the reaper is bad as hell,
They even sing it in the cell.
Killers, Rapist, and satin himself,
They all know the song because it’s straight from hell,
It’s the song of the condemned and the nor-du-well,
They even say that they make it themselves,
The song is different from cell to cell;
For each person has different story to tell.
T he song changes from time to time,
But it always involves a story of crime.
They’re always waiting for their time,
Always thinking about their crimes.
Always wishing that they could undo the past,
Hoping and praying that the pain won’t last.
They’re always thinking about the pain,
They think so much that it drives them insane.
Next thing they know their walking the mile,
Just looking down at the green, green tile.
They shave his head in a circular mold,
Preparing it for the show untold.
After that they strap him down;
Placing his head in a metal crown.
They strap him from head to toe,
Just to make sure that his won’t go.
The priest walks in;
Reads the verse;
In his head he knows the worst.
The priest walks out;
The bailiff walks in,
And tells the crowd of his many sins.
After that, the room goes black;
And he knows that there’s no turning back.
An electric hum is what he hears,
For he can’t hold back the flood of tears.
“Go on three” the bailiff calls
And asks the man for a sound or call.
The man cries out,
“I’m guilty beyond a doubt”
The bailiff calls three and throws the switch;
The man in the chair begins to scream and twitch.
The song of the reaper plays in his head,
It never stops even though h he’s dead.
The bailiff kills the power and walks to the chair;
He takes off the hood and grabs the man’s hair.
He looks in the mans eyes and says these words:
“I’ll see you in hell, for now it’s my turn”.
They even sing it in the cell.
Killers, Rapist, and satin himself,
They all know the song because it’s straight from hell,
It’s the song of the condemned and the nor-du-well,
They even say that they make it themselves,
The song is different from cell to cell;
For each person has different story to tell.
T he song changes from time to time,
But it always involves a story of crime.
They’re always waiting for their time,
Always thinking about their crimes.
Always wishing that they could undo the past,
Hoping and praying that the pain won’t last.
They’re always thinking about the pain,
They think so much that it drives them insane.
Next thing they know their walking the mile,
Just looking down at the green, green tile.
They shave his head in a circular mold,
Preparing it for the show untold.
After that they strap him down;
Placing his head in a metal crown.
They strap him from head to toe,
Just to make sure that his won’t go.
The priest walks in;
Reads the verse;
In his head he knows the worst.
The priest walks out;
The bailiff walks in,
And tells the crowd of his many sins.
After that, the room goes black;
And he knows that there’s no turning back.
An electric hum is what he hears,
For he can’t hold back the flood of tears.
“Go on three” the bailiff calls
And asks the man for a sound or call.
The man cries out,
“I’m guilty beyond a doubt”
The bailiff calls three and throws the switch;
The man in the chair begins to scream and twitch.
The song of the reaper plays in his head,
It never stops even though h he’s dead.
The bailiff kills the power and walks to the chair;
He takes off the hood and grabs the man’s hair.
He looks in the mans eyes and says these words:
“I’ll see you in hell, for now it’s my turn”.