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My life as a serial killer

Pick, pick, pick the lock, in the house I go.
Which room I will be in? Nobody will know.
Living room kitchen bed or bath, Who will be the first to feel my wrath?
This room, that room, here or there.
You better start to say a prayer.
Once I come out, no one will survive. No one else will be alive.
Your guts will be out, your throat will be slit. That’s not all, I have to admit. Your head will be off, your body torn to pieces. With  all of this you’re breathing ceases.
There is a hole in the yard that you will be in. All of you, shoved into a bin.
As sad as it is, I must go. Now I’ve left you, too, with the mark of the crow.
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