The Butcher sits and takes your gold.
Up on Baker Street he sits and takes your gold.
Has no interest in your conversation or your porous soul;
He will just complete the job and take your gold.
An abscessed tooth or broken bone?
Sit on his chair, naked feet on bare stone.
You may feel a little weak, and you may feel a little cold,
But it will all end soon and he will take your gold.
And he will gather up the teeth and bits of bone
And once again he’ll try to make his body whole.
His empty shell which once contained his soul
Which all those years ago he learnt to pawn for gold.
Who else would sell their midnight and their Sunday soul?
Or you can go and queue up with the outside world.
They queue in pain for days, I’m told.
I’d rather end it soon and let him bleed me cold.
No Rhyme, No Reason 