Not one, not two, but many
Have died at my bloody hands.
I strike the enemies mostly at night
When darkness clothes the land in black,
For it is then when they annoy,
Stretching my limited temperament the most.
And oh the pleasure I feel,
Like a hunter who downs big game,
When I snuff out the buggers' lives!
They want my blood, I know.
Gladly I kill those who sneak close to me,
Singing a monotonous tone in my ear
Like young, bumbling lovers do
Who whisper to each other sweet nothings.
Without remorse I confess I've killed,
So don't you wonder when at night
I slip early into my net's safety,
For I am tired of killing
These blood sucking mosquitoes.
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