The poor boor and his whore
With her body all sore
He sat on the sea shore
And wondered what he wore
When he was at the moor
Boots, it was not he was sure
For he threw his only pair out the door
He had to, as he killed his last whore with it
Which caused a lot of gore
He needed to keep on killing to maintain score
And before murdering, their clothes he tore
It excited him otherwise it was a bore
The poor boor was sad now
A feeling he never felt before
And he realised he wanted to kill no more
He was in love now: for his new whore, affection pore
No matter she looked like a man, no matter she sometimes did roar!
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