A few police in ol' B.C.

Searched Willy's farm,

and found some teeth.

The rivers swelled,

As numbers tolled

and ANGELS fell

Where HELL runs cold.

See the hate in Willy's eyes,

See all the twisted ways to die.

Ask the pigs

Fed and big

Oh, if only they could talk.

They'd sniff at the mud

in thirst of blood,

and tell you of the meat Willy brought.

They'd watch the Mounties' patience boil,

While digging deep through Willy's soil.

They can't wipe their hands from the stench of shit,

They've seen a lot, just not this sick.

They've seen rape; they've seen dead,

But they can't see the HATE in Willy's head.

Rot In Hell!

L.M.