Text: Terrorvision. Formaldehyde. Don't Shoot My Dog.

Listening to the story of an angry old man,
He had the whole world in his pocket but,
He had a hole there in his hand,
Never had much trouble fitting into his surroundings,
Dived headlong into life,
And ended up by drowning,
Died by drowning.
His blood is pure venom and his teeth are solid gold,
His clothes are made from human skin,
He's a thousand years old,
He lives down by the poisoned stream,
Where only alligators swim,
Sits there drinking moonshine,
Playing a mean violin, a mean violin,
A really wicked violin.

You've got four lines on your forehead,
And that tells me that you're worried,
Don't shoot my dog,
Don't shoot my dog,
I said please don't shoot my dog.

His wife is laying face down in the pool upon the porch,
He spied me through his blindness,
As I spied her with my torch,
His skin goes tight around his face,
As he smiles his blinding smile,
Points over to a dozen wives laying in a pile,
Laying in a pile... pile high