The big old house
High on the hill
The wood it creaks
And Norman peeps
From his window sill
He sees her blouse
Her shapely fill
And Norman creeps
And waits until
The darkness comes
And he must kill
She does her sums
Then tears the bill
She flushes once
And showers still
The water runs
The music shrill
The knife it shines
Out from his gown
Her blood it seeps
Into the drain
And Norman Bates
Will dress again
To be continued
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