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I feel the urge, compulsive purge

A surge of terror-lightning in my blood

The thunder cracks, I chop and hack a few lowly souls in my neighborhood.

Like a shadow in the quiet hours, with the grace of a midnight flower

Secretly relieving humanity of its ungrieveable slack.

They're the predators and I am the prowler

Prancing through the realm of owls and bats

The feminine urge to swing the axe.

The Laws of the land are conveniently lenient

To those who see purity as weakness

And grind the evil in their spirits to brass tacks.

For every sorrow-harvest harrowed, another head leaves in a wheelbarrow

The feminine urge to swing the axe.

Sallow and gaunt, a haunting presence hides behind a façade

Of decency, completely hallowed by the grace of God

A hollow heart, a husk beneath the tallow of carnal sin

a head ripe to spill its blood beneath dusk's moonlit grin

The feminine urge to swing the axe, no he ain't coming back

The feminine urge to swing the axe.