If you ever were in any kind of doubt
About the evil in the hearts of men
Think about Chicago, circa 1890
And what happened there, back when…
A hotel was built on S. Wallace and 63rd
Owned by one of the devil’s own pawns
A slimy little man by the name of Holmes
He raised the money through elaborate cons
How he went about his money schemes
Is bad… but it pales, when compared to why
He built the place up with the sole intention of
Trapping people there, to die
This fiend kept all his contractors in the dark
So none knew the true nature of the place
Hallways, leading nowhere, many fake doors
Each worker had a puzzled look on his face
A great many builders, all with small jobs
There was no reason to suspect anything foul
Lots of secret passages, trap doors, thick walls
So no one would hear the victims howl
The store, up front, was innocent enough
The apartments on the third floor, too
But the second floor and the basement,
These were where… awful things, he would do
Chutes that lead to the basement below
A huge bank vault, for… something diabolical
A crematorium and acid vats to get rid of bodies
And a labyrinth… not at all metaphorical
A maze of hallways, sinister booby traps,
So much evil, it’s hard to imagine it all
Thing is, it wasn’t a movie, it was a pet-project
His own, private, murder mini-mall
To say he was mad, well… that just doesn’t cut it
It was deeper and much more perverse
Hollywood has made millions and they do try
But have yet to dream up anything worse
Dahmer… he was mad, liked eating the dead
Ted Bundy killed women for sexual kicks
Richard Ramirez, Ed Gein, a whole host of sickos
But none of them ever bought pallets of bricks
H. H. had a slew of craftsmen and laborers
To build a museum of death and by age 35
He was eventually hanged, after confessing to
27 murders, some of whom were still quite alive
The Zodiac escaped capture and Scotland Yard
Never did apprehend the ol’ Ripper, Jack
But neither of them ever went so far
As to construct even a shanty or a shack
I have to admit, I’m unable to fathom
The depravity of such a despicable plan
How so much planning went into the thing
And all of it… from one, single man
I promise you, I don’t find anything whatsoever
About any of this gruesome story funny
But I shudder to think, what some other lunatics
Might’ve done, if only… they’d had enough money
If had a bunch of cash, I’d probably build the
Finest recording studio that anyone’s ever seen
I can’t imagine my first thought would be to build
The set of something like Saw, Part 14
But one man had exactly such a thought
Unspeakable evil was just his idea of fun
He may have killed as many as two hundred,
Yet, they could only convict him for one
How many victims? No one knows, because
Acid and lime don’t let much remain
He admitted to 27 but some were still alive
The only certainty was that Holmes was insane
I’ve seen and read about many ghastly things
Some of it factual and some, fictional mystery
But you can go read all about H. H. Holmes
In any reliable source of modern history
I’m bothered to the core by the sickness of men
The terrifying things that killers will do
But H. H. perturbs me, far more than most
Because all of his story is entirely too true
There are madmen and there are murderers
But you can’t just say something’s “not right”
That a man dreamt up such a chamber of horrors
Well… it’s why I lock my doors at night
©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell
From the upcoming black book of awful, horrible, despicable things, Out On The Killing Floor
Support
You can be a part of the support for more music and poetry, here:
Kevin Trent Boswell 