Monday he met her all glitter and smiles,
Yellow hair and a Marilyn mole,
Her skin was the colour of a country with sun,
Not that Loretta ever did go.
On Tuesday he went in and saw her again,
She worked in crummy old bar,
A ten minute walk from his crumbling home,
With a stench of cheap sweat and cigars.
Lotti, Loretta, call her whatever you want to she’s not gonna hear,
The music’s too loud and even without she’s been diced up and sliced ear to ear.
By midweek he loved her like nothing he knew,
Wednesday night was the night he would ask her,
He sucked up his guts and marched up to the bar,
He said ‘marry me!’, she died of laughter.
On Thursday he purchased electrical tape,
Several tea towels some sheets and a saw,
‘I’m no fucking joke’ was his slogan that day,
And he walked out to meet her once more.
Lotti, Loretta, call her whatever you want to she’s not gonna hear,
the music’s too loud and even without she’s been diced up and sliced ear to ear.
Loretta woke Friday, battered and gagged,
Blood on the front of her dress,
She gurgled and purred and she bubbled and squeaked,
And she squirmed like a loose sack of rats.
For two days he kept her, the coroner says,
Until sometime on Saturday night,
'I’m no fucking joke' he said one final time,
Before slicing her throat left to right.
Lotti, Loretta, call her whatever you want to she’s not gonna hear,
the music’s too loud and even without she’s been diced up and sliced ear to ear.
He worked through the Sabbath day, hacking and slashing,
Cracking her limbs with an axe,
He split up her trunk up into movable chunks,
And then stuffed every lump into sacks.
A week ago Lotti was glitter and smiles,
Yellow hair and a Marilyn mole,
Her skin was the colour of a country with sun,
Not that Loretta ever did go.
