Mr Todd

Skull cracked. Broken neck.

Slit his throat to double check.

Yes he's dead. No one searches.

Burn his clothes or donate to churches?

Cut-throat reflects. Sharper than a shave.

Sit in Todd's chair before the unorthodox grave.

Pastry coffin. Meaty delight.

Congealed blood is an unquestioned sight.

Family are waiting. Better let them go.

Keep the slaughters to a ratio.

Elegant artist. Prowess and grand.

The eternal silver extending his hand.

Avoid the mess. Let them drop.

Into the grinder – 'crunch' turns to 'slop'.

Nosey neighbour: “What's the smell?”

The children work below, reeking of hell.

Small boy escapes. Burned by the light.

No cause for alarm – kill him on sight.

Set an example. Nobody leaves.

Nobody knew him; nobody grieves.

Mrs Lovett, the Barbers' girl.

Sharp as the guillotine but a little pretty pearl.

Selling pies. Famous and unique.

Recipe secret that no one should seek.

Man on his own. Does he need his life?

''Ow 'bout a shave fo' your darlin' wife?'

They are all shit. All deserve to die.

Even Mrs Lovett, the apple of his eye.

Policeman calls. Wants to look around.

13 minutes later he plummets to the ground.

Throat gaping. Precision and sure.

He will be missed, they'll be sending more.

Barbers shop aloft. Kitchen underground.

Route of tunnels that will not be found.

Sweeney is ready. Hear the applause!

As flavours of policemen fall down 3 floors.

He needed Mrs Lovett 'cause nobody else knows

The vastness of bodies he'd have to dispose.

In all of London. Word spreads fast.

Anyone who wont be missed is never gonna last.