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In Britain—where love of the blade is so strong that the nation's most legendary monarch proved his fitness for the throne by pulling a giant knife from a rock—every dagger has its own special story, but very few are as highly prized as the one wielded by famed vivisector Jack the Ripper, a man whose skill with the scalpel marked him out as prodigiously talented even in a country whose inhabitants seem to emerge from the womb with miniature machetes clasped in their tiny hands. Anyway, is this the knife he used to slice up his victims? Sure, why the hell not.
I'm outraged that you persist in characterising my culture as being somehow obsessed with knife crime. Granted, there *have* been a lot of stabbings in my area lately, but that's only because the tearabouts involved can't get hold of guns since the Metropolitan Police cracked down on the supply routes.
I assure you that to the average Briton, stabbing is purely a means to an end, and not an end in its own right. Yes, when I'm forced to kill one of my enemies and a knife is all that there is to hand, I will stab with the best of them. But I wouldn't enjoy it any more than a bludgeoning or a shotgun rampage.
The last time I was threatened with a stabbing, my interlocutor specified that he would use a fork.
Please try to avoid lazy generalisations in future.
If I pump out blood in the sunshine
Oil on the wheel
That is blasted and busted away
A nail or a little piece of glass
A little piece of glass
A little piece of glass
Swarming like bees over the air
Off the pump off the thing
The blood that I’m pumping away
Like bees over the air
Off the pump
Off the thing
The blood that I’m pumping away
Off the pump
Off the thing
The blood that I’m pumping away
If I pump blood in the sunshine
And you wear a leather box with azaleas
And I pump more blood
And it seeps through my skin
Will you adore the river
The stream, the trickle
The tributary of my heart
As I pump more blood
And it seeps through my skin
Will you adore the river
The stream, the trickle
The tributary of my heart
If I’m pumping blood
Like a common state worker
If I waggle my ass like a dark prostitute
Would you think less of me
And my coagulating heart
Waggle my ass like a dark prostitute
Coagulating heart
Pumping blood
Would you top me off
Would you top me off as I deepen a curtsy
While you yell out, “mercy”
We grow apart
Would you rip and cut me
Use a knife on me
Be shocked at the boldness
The coldness of this little heart
Tied up in leather
Would you take the measure
Of the blood that I pump
In the manic confusion of love
Supreme violation
Supreme violation
“Oh, ah, ah, ah Jack I beseech you”
“Oh Jack I beseech you”
Supreme violation
Blood in the foyer
The bathroom
The tea room
The kitchen, with her knives splayed
I will swallow your sharpest cutter
Like a colored man’s dick
Blood spurting from me
“Oh Jack, Jack I beseech…”
“Jack, I beseech you, I beseech…”
In the end it was an ordinary heart
“Oh Jack I beseech you”
As I scream out my pain
In the end it was an ordinary heart
In the end, in the end, in the end
It was an ordinary heart
“Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack I beseech you”
Supreme violation . . . Oh
“Jack, Jack, Jack I beseech you”
I call out your name
Blood in the foyer, the bathroom,
The tea room, the kitchen
And knives splayed
I swallow your sharpest cutter
Like a colored man’s dick
Blood spurting from me
Blood spurting from me
“Oh Jack”
“Oh Jack, I beseech ya”
In the end it was an ordinary heart
In the end it was an ordinary heart
Pumping blood
see you at Coroner Hetfield's table.