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Still fighting strong after his hundredth battle

Slaughtering contenders just like diseased cattle

The handle to his weapon is your hangman’s noose

Wrapped round your throat and you can’t shake loose

His seed, the bastard kills his own kind

Not tens, not dozens, but hundreds of times

He prepares his weapon so others will die

Soaked over night, in acid it lies

Heat in kiln for hours to dry

Your knuckles will bleed, your mother will cry

your mother will cry

your mother will cry