There, through the door
There's a man on the floor
And what's more Carl is there
There's a dead human, I say
What has made him this way?
So I command that Carl explain
I've never seen him, says he
Until you showed him to me
I've seen him never before in my life
I ask Carl why he'd kill him
My tone of voice is quite grim
But murder is Carl's least favorite thing
I demand again he explain
And with his expression unchanged
Carl denies all my claims, he'd been busy
He'd been in his room reading The Great Gatsby
And this man barged inside without asking
I am shocked when Carl finally says…
"And I, uh…I stabbed him 37 times in the chest."
Caaaaaaaarl, I cry
Why'd you make this man die?
But then I notice something is gone
Carl, I venture, his hands
What's that, he says, come again?
His hands, Carl, why are they missing?
He looks from me to the ground
Out of recognition does he make a sound
Eyes on me, he smiles and says…
"Well I, uh, I sort of cooked them up. And ate them."
I can't believe what I'm hearing
Why would you do such a thing?
I was hungry for hands, he replies
My stomach twisted at the man recently died
Carl's was full and hands-satisfied
What is wrong with you, friend?
Well I kill people, he starts
And I eat hands, he remarks
Soooo that's two things.