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

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