Author’s Note: This one is a little more fun if you read it in Tony Soprano’s voice.
I always defended my inner child Even when change, he’d slow or shunt I spoke to him softly, sweet and kind Never too harsh, rude, or blunt
But his juvenile ways sabotage me Constantly force me to fall back and punt It’s time for him to grow the hell up My progress, the crybaby tries to stunt
If I’m ever gonna get ahead in this world Any luck in life, the brutal hunt I can’t afford to have this kid in my way His juvenile tantrums, I gotta confront
All this baby does is worry, complain He fights reality, finds truth an affront His childish attitudes are holding me back I say, fuck that bratty, squawkin’ cunt
I know a guy; he paints houses, wetwork A reliable button man to bear the brunt He knows how to handle these things A backdoor man; alibi and solid front
I’m sick of his shit, bellyachin’, moanin’ I gotta do it; I’m putting out a hit on the runt I’ll murder this punk and bury his body In a shallow grave by the waterfront
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
Happy first day of Halloween. I put something dark and sweet into your pumpkin for you.
That One Time
Your belongings will not likely be stolen In the times you watched them like a hawk But rather, they up and run away The one time that you forget about the lock
Your blessings will surely not come to an end In those times in which you’re praying a lot No, your blessing well will only run dry Because of the one time you did not
You’re unlikely to be brutally murdered, Your corpse buried beneath someone’s floor On most days, that is… Unless, of course, you forget to latch the door
Kevin Trent Boswell 