| I scrawled an ode to this mortal coil
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| In scarlet upon your back
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| I gnarled in code with dreadful toil
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| A parting verse so black…
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| Ivory skin streched out before me
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| In frozen fields of pallid grace
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| Livid eyes rolled back and silently implored me
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| From out of your jaundiced face
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| Carving in crimson with scalpel and rasp
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| Sculpturing your flesh into your epitaph
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| Your corpse tells its tale in blood, pus and grume
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| Spilling out secrets you should take to your tomb
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| A carnal epitaph perhaps best left unheard
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| The time has come to mince more than words
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| Parting words don’t often cut this deep
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| Engraved on your back, the secrets we’ll keep
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| Though you’ll never read these empty words
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| Upon the slab you lie so still
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| They don’t cut as deep as you deserve
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| Poetic licence to hack, maim, and kill…
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| The porcelain flesh that enshrouds you remains
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| Were both my parchment and my muse
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| Now incarnadined hand I penned these lines
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| As best I could well manage
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| I cruelly carved out these designs
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| What words are worth in tissue damage…
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| Carving in crimson with scalpel and rasp
|
| Sculpturing your flesh into your epitaph
|
| Your corpse tells its tale in blood, pus and grume
|
| Spilling out secrets you should take to your tomb
|
| A carnal epitaph perhaps best left unheard
|
| The time has come to mince more than words
|
| Parting words don’t often cut this deep
|
| Engraved on your back, the secrets we’ll keep… |