the sound of vomiting
|
to my ears like singing
|
now im beginning to become erect
|
with illness im obsessed
|
in the beds of the fallen i rest
|
fixation amplified the smell here is what i like best
|
feverishly combing the buckets of waste
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wrapping myself in the filth-ridden sheets
|
raping the shells of the comatose to fulfill my needs
|
|
photographing bedsores cultured by my sick neglect
|
its more then a job, its a love for me
|
to walk this close with death
|
when you hear a flat line you know surely i'll be near
|
to when the reapers sickle is drawn i am ever aware
|
|
i wish i could pull these strings
|
in death there are finer things
|
malpractice forever be my bitter name
|
how quickly life does fade away
|
but one flip of the rivers man coin
|
could send you screaming to your grave
|
|
(solo)
|
|
grief stricken family watches on ceaseless prayers for an only son
|
"im afraid that nothing can be done" the moment has finally come
|
the wrath of a god exemplified to the pearly gates he'll soon arrive
|
to leave here his husk in this room of white im quivering at thought
|
|
pull the plug
|
im begging you
|
take the ride
|
to the cold and blue
|
the reapers yellowed lichen finger aims ever so true
|
the origins of disease I have witnessed in my dreams
|
the flooding of the blackest blood to quench my fetid needs
|
|
i wish i could pull these strings
|
in death there are finer things
|
malpractice forever be my bitter name
|
|
i wish i could pull these strings
|
in death there are finer things
|
|
-----------------
|
Virally Yours
|
The Black Dahlia Murder |