| Creative juices flowing
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| And it’s graveyard raiding time again
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| Engulfed by darkness
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| Digging for my art
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| Which is my only friend
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| Stuffing in potato sacks
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| The ones that suit my special need
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| Burial was but in vain
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| They still come back with me
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| Hacksawing away at rigor mortified cadavers
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| Set aside the right limbs
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| To consruct my latest skullpture
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| Maggots into flies
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| They buzz before my eyes, breed in my hair
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| I turn my corpses into art
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| It is my life, nothing compares
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| The smell gets my mind in gear
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| Helps me decide which parts go where
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| Forearm sewed with stitches thick
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| Onto someone’s sliced off dick
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| Woman’s face removed with care
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| Still attached to scalp and hair
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| Put it on my face and stare
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| And think of what comes next
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| Kneecap pried off with screwdriver nailed to foot
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| Decorated with toenails
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| Now I look at the pair of breasts I’ve severed
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| On my tray
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| Sew the two together
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| Flesh is brittle and grey
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| Another masterpiece is now complete
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| A mass of arms and legs and hands and feet
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| Stomach draped about drained of their bile
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| Skull atop the rotten sting pile |