The sound of vomiting to my ears like singing
now I am beginning to become erect
with illness I am obsessed in the beds of the fallen I rest
a fixation amplified the smell here is what I like bestfeverishly combing the buckets of waste
wrapping myself in the filth-ridden sheets
raping the shells of the comatose
to fulfill my needsphotographing bedsores cultured by my sick neglect
it's more than a job it's 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 reaper's 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 namehow quickly life does fade away
but a flip of the river mans coin
could send you screaming to your gravegrief stricken family watches on ceaseless prayers for an only son
"I'm afraid that nothing can be done" his 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 I'm quivering at thoughtpull the plug (I'm begging you) take the ride (to the cold and blue)
the reapers yellowed lichen fingers aims ever so true
the orgins 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 nameI wish I could pull these strings
in death there are finer things
