| Necrotic ooze poured from a carafe
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| Acquired for a blood bath
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| In the morgue lies a treasure trove of lividous compounds decaying
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| A trocar suctions out the blood while a sphincter suffers my raking
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| With reams of ichor and surplus of fæces, the dead are so giving
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| A boundless supply of foetid excretions compels me to lavage the stench of
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| The living
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| My skin sullied with the filth of life
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| Vomit of my pores with which I am rife
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| In my crepitated pits bacteria thrive
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| Momentarily subdued by this morbid dive
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| Cadaverous fats boiled into soap for a rotten lather
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| Ensanguine mix of excreta and chyme, the cleanser I have gathered
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| Putrescent spilth and human chum squab over the lip of my tub
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| Soaking in the dead, skeletal remains exfoliate and scrub
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| A cauldron teeming with wasted corse
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| This mortal soiled with pus and remorse
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| Out, out damned spot, caught red-handed, blood stains so hard to clean
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| Arteries pumping crimson kelter, veins to expunge and ream
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| A babe from the womb untimely ripped, bereft of life, it’s squeezed and
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| Drained
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| Placenta sponging at this corporeal form of which I am ashamed
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| Basted organs
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| Sebacious glands
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| Cooked in a vat
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| For a blood bath
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| Scour away integument to reveal the fleshy tendons that I’ll
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| Abrase with cholic acid and with a solvent composed of bile
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| Scrub out my gullet with a pro-septic wash that will
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| Erase this mired being to be drained with the rest of the swill
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| Post-mortem spew and excrement garnish the mort bouillon
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| Meliorated with moldered viscera in my dead body lotion
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| The necro-emetic concoction, effervescing with unctuous suds
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| Desoils me of my besmirched existence, submerged in a basin of blood
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| Blood bath |