I dreamt of a man who had a pig's head
his skin was dry and it was chapped
His eyes were filled with madness
and in his hand he carried a butcher's knife

He had a cellar meant for slaughtering
bloodstained, cold and damp
And in the hall were prison cells
where people waited to be slain

On the walls hung rusty hooks and knives
and on the floor lay pools of blood
some were dry but some were fresh
and people cried out in despair

A naked table made of steel
stood alone in the room
Beside it stood the man solemnly
and in his hand, the butcher's knife