Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Inpropagation, artist - Carcass. Date of issue: 21.04.2013
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Inpropagation |
| Insipid fumes bellow from the atrabilious chimney |
| Whilst in the sanctified crevet I calmly pillage and rake |
| For hot dry powdered human slag |
| Still steaming in the crematorium’s grate |
| Bio-organic ebullition, bones tar, tallow dehydrates |
| For my deleterious horticulture so that I may cultivate |
| Your mortal mechanism dies -- in nutrients rich |
| In the hallowed turf you lie -- just for the taking |
| Charred sinew’s as good as lime, no phosphates do I need |
| Deteriorated flesh used as top-soil, to replenish and nourish seed |
| Spreading this human potash, as ash matured |
| Recycling my rich harvest, bring out your dead, for use as manure |
| Irrigating tears are shed, but the ground still must be fed |
| Tipping and dusting up the spilt contents of urns |
| Every morsel that glows like ember on the fire |
| Extinguishing all hope of beatrific dispatch |
| These charred chassis desired |
| Exequiet rites now performed, a coronach sooting up the flu |
| Enter my execrable inferno, even in the after-life there’s work to do |
| The nitrogen content’s high -- but the flesh is weak |
| At the graveside mourners cry -- you’re never to wake again |
| Burnt brisket renews the ground, to germinate my seed |
| Cremated bodies are my spoil, to use them as plant-feed |
| Ploughing this abhorrent human manure |
| Seeding my rich harvest, bring out your dead, for the soils to devour |
| Dry the dead are bled, because the ground must be fed |
| And there’s still no rest for the dead |
| I propagate -- dust in the grate |
| Ashes to ashes, dust to dust |
| Diluted in water and sprayed on crops |
| Charcoal, fats, flesh and soot |
| Fertilising pasture with active fertile rot |
| Incumbent -- latent calories are spent |
| Ashes to ashes, dust to dust |
| Renewing the land with corpses corrupt |
| Mortuary scrapings, hearses a must |
| To the hot hearth the deceased are trussed |
| Harvesting the defouled, to fertilize my soil |
| Rejuvenating the spent with my fecundate spoils |
| Reaping the gone, to nourish the land |
| Replenishing exhausted pasture with my uncanny sleight of hand |
| Restoring the unnatural balance, sowing my seed |
| Defalcating the departed, I rapt and glean |
| So I recite my contrite lament, lacrimation for the dead |
| Their rest which I disturb |
| Where should stand row upon row of cold grey remembrance stones |
| My cash crops now grow |