| Epicurean pathology
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| Shattered gross anatomy
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| Bodily fluids, foul and septic
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| I sing the body decrepit
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| Your funeral, my feast
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| You’ll never rest in peace
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| Tagged, sectioned then slabbed
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| Slurp fluids from your body bag
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| Repulsive, jaundiced flesh
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| The stomach turning sight that I love best
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| Necrosis setting in
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| Discolored, rotting, mottled skin
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| The weevils writhe and squirm
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| Your torso now alive with worms
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| As organs liquefy
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| I whet my abhorrent appetite
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| Your funeral, my feast
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| A masterstroke of rotting meat
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| My dinner table’s where you rest in piece
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| Your funeral, my feast
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| Gruesome garnish, moist carnage
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| Raw bits of human garbage
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| The chunks seep, they won’t keep
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| Gnashing through as each piece bleeds
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| Your decay, my entrée
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| I wouldn’t have it any other way
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| Maggot millet, stuffs your gullet
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| To please my most deranged of palettes
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| Splenetic, ghastly taste
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| The stinking savor of pathological waste
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| Trypsin' and pepsin marinate
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| The loathsome bowels I masticate
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| To dine upon this foul concoction
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| Requires a taste for extreme unction
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| But for those who have the stomach
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| We sate our hunger on tripe and vomit
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| Your funeral, my feast
|
| A masterstroke of rotting meat
|
| My dinner table’s where you rest in piece
|
| Your funeral, my feast
|
| Your funeral, my feast |