Brought to you by the cenobites
And the sights they have to show
Written by a third-rate hack
What he's writing, he doesn't know
He leads an indie band
Or industrial, I don't care
He's run out of ideas
So he peels a banana for spares
Peel slowly and see
He knows not what SSC means
He praises abuse instead
Puerile fantasies of s**
And violence;
Look at the edge