| Let us be stillborn
|
| We’re mauled, embalmed, from wombs we’re torn
|
| The madness critical
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| We’re charred, diseased, we’re funerals
|
| Your vacant coffin waits
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| Disemboweled, you’re maggot bait
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| For air you vainly gasp
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| This severed breath will be your last
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| Can you hear the funeral bell
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| Ringing in your brain?
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| Falling, crawling, casket calling
|
| You’re just a mass of burnt decay
|
| There’s a hole in your head, your flesh it crawls
|
| The day of bloody slaughter is now
|
| Crusades of darkness, bonesaws rip
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| The only path is six feet down
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| Autopsy
|
| Autopsy on your burning corpse
|
| Autopsy
|
| Autopsy, death is your reward
|
| Ravenous freaks and fiends for blood
|
| Plunge you into blackness within
|
| Your rotting face is frozen with fear
|
| As the walls of the coffin close in
|
| Brain damaged, you bathe in flames
|
| Your bowels ripped in a violated grave
|
| Sadistic spilling of blood, you were always about to die
|
| You’re full of maggot holes, your corpse it shall not rise
|
| The headless ritual emblazened in the crimson skies |