Ill Man

It's correct, I ate your limbs
Black hogs make stumps of their legs
Do the rack, hurt the little person
Befriend the terrible
Make me kill the person over there
A little child lay under the rug
Hello little boy
You don't like me, do you?
The book of Hard Death burns your eyes out!
Smell the dirt of the Beautiful-Leper!
And I must yonder over the moot
For Hate is my mate