All slaughterhouses are death camps manned by psychopaths

When one kills innocent animals day in day out
One sees
Ones spirit fading rapidly which signifies the ease
That those enrolled to do the dirty work of others who
Sit on their leather sofa’s allowing them to do
All the filthy killing that’s until we see
The psychopath come into being and stalk the world and be
Covered in the blood of those he murders every hour
Blood and guts fill all his dreams creating so much power

And he is paid for doing this so an assassin it appears
With all the worst intentions such spitefulness he clears
The paths of genuine innocence and leAves behind the pain
The screaming and the torture which becomes his own refrain
Pigs we see them standing there as Mr P arrives
Brandishing his chopper he has come for their lives
Smeared blood all across himself his head his hand his shoes
P it stands for psychopath he thinks that he’s good news

When he gets home his darling imagine how she feels
Laying beside him in their bed imagine what that reveals
The smell of guts and blood and puke and his ramblings at night
MR P the psychopath devoid of any light
And Mr P has children their dads a slaughter man
Unloved by all humanity his life went down the pan
As soon as he accepted the task of killing he
Became a shameful arse ole which he is going to be

All the rest of his life and I hope to god it’s short
As for those who buy dead fleSh and do not have a thought
For his wife and his two children who have to be around
A dad who cuts up animals and kills them on the ground
Who stinks of blood and thunder of offal hoof and tongue
And in all the world of psychopaths this creep is among
The worst that ever walked the earth the slaughterer supreme
Who lets the abattoir pay him to watch the piglets scream

The evil eyes are everywhere in slaughterhouses we
See them up upon the wall where they have to be
For the innocence are made to walk through the great death door
Get their throats slashed and be hung up not to see life anymore
Taken from their concrete pen and transported in a truck
Not given any water they do not care a fcuk
No matter how long the journey no food will they get
They are sold to be killed the margin of error can be debt
The meat trade are a bunch of rogues dealers in true death
In they come all grunting well until we steal the breath
That pumped the blood around their bodies and that’s done in a trice
Then up steps good old MR P to roll his lousy dice