In the valleys of a town
a wake dost always happens
of a jack named Terry House
and his mind of pure skin wrappings.
He spends his lonely days
among the neighbors care,
he spends his twisted nights
sewing rope of dead ones hair.
Each day he takes a stroll
under the guidance of a shining star
and each twilight he goes scouting
house to house, near and far.
He smiles at the shops
and cackles at the fools
for he has his sick thoughts
drowning in his septic mind pool.
So lock your doors young lasses
and be sure to look amidst
for you know when you're in trouble
when House gives you your last kiss.