There,

Out in the dungeon,

A teenager questing,

Fooling my minions,

Spying on me,

But I shall stop it

Dead in its tracks.

It won't reach Level Three,

It won't reach Level Three.

It finds itself in the dark:

Its horned headgear blinds it to all.

It depends on its nasty advisors,

But I'll slay them all.

And when it falls, as so many have,

I'll mock its fall.

Saws,

In your corridor,

Scarce to be counted,

Slicing the children

So cleanly in half,

You are the sentinels,

Noisy but sure,

Oh, it does make me laugh,

Oh, it does make me laugh.

You know your place in the wall,

You hold your course and your aim,

Which, for some strange reason, the kids cannot see

Remain always the same,

So when they fall, as so many have,

They bear the blame.

And so it must be,

For so they are bitten

By your teeth and your brutal slice.

Those who cannot see a pattern plain

Must pay the price.

Oh, let them find you,

That they may meet you

And you may cause

Their unpleasant death.

You shall!

This I swear,

This I swear by the saws!