Feeding—noshing Mort, they’re feeding;
Vile is this gore fest; they’re eating—he’s lunch.
Smeared drops rolling down as they taste;
Vile is this gore fest; they feast on his blood.

Feeding. . .he once had life; it’s fleeting.
He’d wish he’d never met these churls;
The point’s moot ’cause he’s dead.

Feeding, gro-o-oss feeding,
Gro-o-oss, eating his legs and his arms.

Feeding, feeding—guy’s nothing but hors d’oeuvre;
They’re eating, even the chambers and the valves of his heart.

Feeding—they took his life by eating.
He’d wish he’d never met these churls;
His joints chewed; noshed, his head!

Feeding, feeding—guy’s nothing but gore d’oeuvre;
They’re eating—it’s a shame ’cause he was once so full of life.

Feeding, gro-o-oss feeding,
Gro-o-oss, eating, and now I’m alarmed!

Feeding, and now it’s me they’re eating. . . .