| The lingering scirrhus begins to harden
|
| As the insides fall prey to putrefaction
|
| Rotting tissue turns to mush and pulp
|
| As your mind is torn by encephalitis
|
| Your cavities rot with ulcers
|
| Your infected inflammations torn
|
| Your gizzards eaten by incursive decay
|
| You’re infernally rotten to the gore
|
| Juices digested from each pus-swollen pore
|
| Insatiable hunger as I feast on the gore
|
| Nothing gives me greater pleasure
|
| Than a bowl full of chyme
|
| Maggot infested kidneys
|
| Are what I choose every time
|
| The smell of plaguing infection
|
| Is nauseatingly emetic
|
| Prolonged spumescence of stale pus
|
| Stinks like hot, putrid vomit
|
| Your body is indurate
|
| The insides are black as tar
|
| Your innards gnawed by septic hate
|
| Now a mass of empyaema
|
| Your blood is caked
|
| Dried and inconsistent
|
| Your bloody rotten gore
|
| Is now vitrescent |