All The Nasties:
A Celebration Of
Six Centuries Of
Serial Sex Killers

Gilles de Rais
Vlad III Of Wallachia
Elizabeth Bathory
Theodore Robert Bundy
Peter William Sutcliffe
Denis Nilsen

Song Of Bluebeard

Iím Gilles de Rais,
My life is gay
And happy as can be,
The comely wench
Who saved the French
Could well have married me.

Iím Gilles, Iím Gilles,
Young boys I kill,
I love to hear their howls;
I tan their hide
While sat astride,
My prick shoved up their bowels.

Alas, poor Joan,
She died alone,
Ignited at the stake,
When I think of
My poor, lost love,
My noble heart doth ache.

Iím Gilles, Iím Gilles,
Itís such a thrill
To watch the fuckers squirm,
Squashed to death,
Draw their final breath,
And drink my noble sperm.

Prince Of Darkness

Bram Stoker was a joker if he thought his count was bad,
There never was a vampire quite like me, the son of Vlad,
Iím best remembered for my inhumanity to man,
Impaling people thousands at a time with great ťlan.
There never was a massacre like I did at St Barts,
And dined midst the cadavers of the townsfolk: wretched farts.
Then there were the ambassadors who left me vexed and red;
I left each with a migraine and his hat nailed to his head.
My catalogue of sexual perversions contains stunts
Like cutting womenís nipples off, and pokers up their cunts,
I even slit my mistress down the middle for a laugh;
Vlad Tsepes, Prince of Darkness makes a fitting epitaph.

December 25, 1991

The Blood Countess

In 1560 I was born,
And many wish I hadnít been;
I treated everyone with scorn;
Of lady killers I was queen.

The Blood Countess they christened me,
Because I used to bath in gore;
I murdered virgin maids with glee
Behind my Sarvar castle door.

My husband was a wicked one,
But he was not a patch on Liz,
Until youíve seen the things Iíve done
Youíve no idea what evil is.

When I was but a child I saw
A fellow sewn up in a horse,
Since then Iíve murdered girls galore
With never a grain of remorse.

Stripped naked theyíre placed in a cage
And stabbed most painfully to death
While I swear and blaspheme in rage -
Eat your heart out, Lady MacBeth.

You too Hyndley and Belle Gunness,
Youíre like a pair of babysitters
Compared to the Blood Countess,
For I killed hundreds of the critters.

Three centuries and more have gone
Since I died walled up in my room,
But my presence will linger on,
My evil shadow always loom,

For deep in every womanís heart
There lurks a temptress and a whore,
And a psychotic, murderous tart
Who yearns to kill and gorge on gore.

December 25, 1991

Deliberate Stranger


Hi there, Iím Ted,
Iíve come to fuck your daughter;
Sheíll soon be dead,
Iíll lead her to the slaughter.

I kill for kicks,
My heartís as black as Hell,
How many chicks
Iíve done I couldnít tell.

They asked me once
And I replied with sniggers:
This fucking nonce
Is now in triple figures.

Why is it my
Victims are so receptive
To this guy?
Well, good looks can be deceptive.


Take that, you fucking whore!
Iíll bet your arse is sore.
Ecstatically I bit
At Lisa Levyís tit.

A twelve year old, a peach!
Itís curtains for Kim Leach,
And all the others slain -
Young lives thrown down the drain.
Fear, agony, death spasm:
The price of Tedís orgasm.

Alas, it couldnít last,
And now I stand aghast
Awaiting my own death
Trembling with baited breath.

Outside the prison gate
They scream my name in hate -
Eat Bundy fries
As Bundy dies!
Is this to be my fate...?


Too fucking right it is, you scum,
The time for you to fry has come!

Burn Bundy, burn, so say them and say I:
It couldnít happen for a nicer guy.

Song Of The Yorkshire Ripper

Dear Mr Oldfield, you look such
A sad and worried man,
The strain is becoming too much;
Why not throw in your hand?

Do you really think youíll catch me,
You and your force of fools?
Youíve not a chance George, for you see
I donít play by your rules.

You never know when next Iíll strike
Or which town I will raid
Until another whoring Tyke
Falls victim to my blade.

At night when youíre tucked up in bed
I take my trusty knife;
A swift cut, then a flash of red:
So ends another life.

Or if Iím feeling really mean
Iíll do a proper job,
Iíll smash her face, rupture her spleen
And leave her face a blob.

You must admit, George, Iím so cool
With knife and ball pein hammer,
But youíre not, George, you look a fool
On TV when you stammer.

But I like you, George, youíre a pro,
Like that Yard fellow, Slipper,
Just thought Iíd write to let you know:
Sincerely yours, the Ripper.

The Beast Of Cranley Gardens

My name is Dennis Nilsen, Iím a necrophiliac,
I strangle young men with my ties then fuck them up the crack,
I pick them up in pubs I frequent; some of them are queer,
And some of them are homeless, thatís the reason they come here.
I offer them a bed and ply them with beer, wine and Scotch,
And when Iíve killed them, I wank off and make the corpses watch.
I bury them beneath the floorboards, flush them down the bog
In Cranley Gardens where I live with Beep, my faithful dog.

Iíd done fifteen or sixteen when the Old Bill came for me,
And shattered my veneer of quaint respectability;
I wouldíve got away with it if Iíd taken more care
And hadnít blocked the drain up with flesh, offal, bone and hair.
My case came up before a jury whom I tried to sway
Pretending to be sick as well as lonely, sad and gay.
They sent me down for life because they know Iím not insane;
Iím just an evil little cunt with murder on the brain.

[The above was first published in Scatoligicus Eroticum, February 1993.]

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