| Carrion my name
|
| For those who choose to mouth the curse
|
| A tragic serenade
|
| With Judas in my stride
|
| The Gothic halls of shame
|
| Where statues coldly hold no worse
|
| Than the murders I reclaim
|
| From a dark, forsaken time
|
| Kissing heaven, spent
|
| He wipes lips free of his hectic discharge
|
| Wishing to repent
|
| For the brute that ravaged free
|
| In slight hands beauty weeps
|
| Conquest’s deep methodical screwing
|
| Hurt repeatedly
|
| Like the world wound at his feet
|
| Dirge Inferno
|
| As it is written, damn it
|
| So let it be wrung
|
| From throats of those in overthrow
|
| The past at last has come
|
| A savage bit without respite
|
| Pervades the freezing air
|
| This winter chill, grist for his mill
|
| If tears of joy will blear elsewhere
|
| And church bells drown in the cracks of doom
|
| The storms above us hew
|
| As lightning runs like bifurcate tongues
|
| Deflowering two by two
|
| Hissing, malcontent
|
| He storms the skies on electric discharge
|
| Pissing in contempt
|
| On the effigies of the weak
|
| Killing all resolve
|
| The great beast simmers, his scarlet women
|
| Spit their vitriol
|
| On the terrified face of peace
|
| Dirge Inferno
|
| As it is written, damn it
|
| So let it be wrung
|
| From throats of those in overthrow
|
| Our past at last has come
|
| A hellbound heart, the rose and thorn
|
| Have locked to hasten blood
|
| The moon disrobes, to harden droves
|
| Of legions pouring
|
| These rivers press, his breath adorns
|
| Senates and enemy seats
|
| Whilst his power takes as ingratitude
|
| The writhing of the weak
|
| «Wormwood my name
|
| The poisoned star that fell to earth
|
| And blistered free of shame
|
| In the pits of self-rebirth
|
| Now those caves become a farret
|
| Overseeing endless barracks
|
| As the waters turn to claret
|
| And the Vatican satins burn |