He once had a life and a loving wife,

That was stolen from him

By a pious vulture of the law.

He dreamed of coming home,

To find them waiting.

But what he found was not Lucy, nor Johanna,

But Mrs. Lovett;

His life would never be the same.

He hides in the dark,

Killing poor, innocent men;

A flick of his wrist;

A flash of silver and red.

Then down to the bakehouse they go,

To be made into pies.

Poor Mrs. Lovett works non-stop

To feed the town of London her pies;

Dreaming of the day she and the barber will wed.

She loves him dearly, while

He loves her not.