Jason Voorhees

O Mother, 'twas it rebuked?
Thou with a thirst never to be slaked.
The ones of begotten slattern,
Did they satisfy thee, Mother?

O Mother, hast thou been satisfied?
Or dost thou remain hateful and wrathful?

Nary of it matters to me, sweet Mother,
For the Lake is mine Paradise,
And their place to be offered to thee, Mother.

O Mother, mine soul hath been taint'd,
Yet thou forgiveth mine heresies,
Thou see'st them to the ends,
By giving mineself a most unholy form.

O Mother, how much long shall I spill,
Spilleth the blood of those of slatternly purpose?
Forevermore?

Nary of it matters.
Thine wish is mine command,
Sweet Mother.