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
a fixation amplified the smell here is what i like best
feverishly combing the buckets of waste
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 to take the ride to the cold and blue
the reapers yellowed lichen finger aims ever so true
the origins of disease to be witnessed in my dreams
the flooding of the blackest blood to quench my fetid needs
