| I was born with a birthmark of cinders
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| Debris cast from the stars and mother
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| A ring of bright slaughter
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| I spat in the waters of life
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| That ran slick from the stabwounds in her
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| Dub me Lord Abortion, the living dead
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| The bonesaw on the backseat
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| On this bitter night of giving head
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| A sharp rear entry, an exit in red
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| Lump in the throat, on my cum choke
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| The killing joke worn thin with breath
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| I grew up on the sluts bastard father beat blue
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| Keepsake cunts cut full out easing puberty through
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| Aah!
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| Nostalgia grows
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| Now times nine or ten
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| Within this vice den called a soul
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| Dying for resurrection
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| I dig deep to come again
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| The spasm of orgasm on a roll
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| I live the slow serrated rape
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| The bucks fizz of amyl nitrate
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| Victims force fed their own face
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| Tear stains upon the drape
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| I should compare them
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| To a warm Summer’s day
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| But to the letter, it is better
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| To lichen their names to a grave
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| Counting my years on an abacus strung
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| With labial rings and heartstrings undone
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| Dub me Lord Abortion, the living dead
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| The bonesaw on the backseat
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| On this bitter night of giving head
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| A sharp rear entry, an exit in red
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| Lump in the throat, on my cum choke
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| The killing joke worn thin with breath
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| Horrorscopes My diorama
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| A twelve part psychodrama
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| Another chained I mean to harm her
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| Inside as well as out
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| A perverts gasp inside the mask
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| I’m hard, blow my house of cards
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| All turn up Death, her bleeding starts
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| In brute vermillion parts
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| Now I slither through the hairline cracks
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| In sanity, best watch your back
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| Possessed with levering Hell’s gates wide
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| Liberating knives to cut humanity slack
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| My ambition is to slay anon
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| A sinner in the hands of a dirty God
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| Who lets me prey, a Gilles De Rais
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| Of light where faith leads truth astray
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| I slit guts and free the moistest faeces
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| Corrupt the corpse and seize the choicest pieces
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| Her alabaster limbs that dim the lit carnal grin
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| Vaginal skin to later taste and masturbate within
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| My heart was a wardrum beat
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| By jugular cults in eerie jungle vaults
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| When number thirteen fell in my lap
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| Lips and skin like sin, a Venus Mantrap
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| My appetite whetted, storm crows wheeled
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| At the blurred edges or reason 'til I was fulfilled
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| Whors d’oeuvres eaten, I tucked her into
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| A grave coffin fit for the Queen of Spades
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| She went out like the light in my mind
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| Her face an avalanche of pearl, of ruby wine
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| Much was a flux, but the mouth once good for fucks
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| Came from retirement to prove she had not lost her touch
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| I kissed her viciously, maliciously, religiously
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| But when has one been able to best separate the three?
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| I know I’m sick as Dahmer did, but this is what I do
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| Aah, aah, ahh, I’ll let you sleep when I am
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| Through
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| The suspect shadow sher they least
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| Expect my burning grasp to reach
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| The stranglehold, the opened arms
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| Seeking sweet meat with no holes barred
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| Rainbows that my razors wrung
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| Midst her screams and seams undone
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| Sung at the top of punctured lungs
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| I bite my spiteful tongue
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| Lest curses spat from primal lairs
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| Freeze romance where Angels, bare
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| Are lost to love, bloodloss, despair
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| I weep, they merely stare
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| And stare, and stare, and stare, and stare |