A party of film-makers go off into the wood,
If I were them I wouldn't really think now that I should,
And, yes, here comes the slasher and they're falling by the score,
He's killing all the busty ones, but there'll be plenty more.
The killer's name is Freddie, or maybe it was Jason,
Who gives a damn, there's lots of blood and it's filling up a basin,
And the jolly B-film industry is doing rather well,
It is the realm of fan boys and their own private hell.
They make Harry Potter gore-fests that must be against the law,
Remakes of the Haunted Hill, Cujo, Fred and Saw,
They are the kings of raspberry juice and rubber severed heads,
And they'll keep on making movies till they're busted by the Feds.
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