| Laying in my bed, I think of many horror tales
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| Yet I barely move, my bed is made of nails
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| I try to roll off, my skin slowly tears away
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| My flesh is stuck to my bed as I begin my day
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| Walking out the house, this morning, the sky is red
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| The streets are crowded with the bodies of the living dead
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| They’re trying to die, they’re leaping off of rooftops
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| Uh, they only scream in pain as their body flops
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| I’d rather stay inside my home and only pray to die
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| But my house is been on fire since like '85
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| I can only stand a night of the fatal smoke
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| But see you never die, you only burn and choke
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| And so I leave out the house and walk the land
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| Wild pigs run and feed off the dying man
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| And look around you, there’s bodies hanging from the trees
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| But they’re not dying, they’re only crying «please»
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| I hear the thunder in the sky, so I run and hide
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| The deadly rain may soon come down, you’ve got to get inside
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| The lunatics see the lightning, they’re screaming, yes
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| It’s raining blood, the streets are a bloody mess
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| About once or twice a week though it thunder storms
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| That’s when giant heavy red and black clouds form
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| It’s raining blood, and kidneys, and livers from the sky
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| Prepare cuz when you die, you’re coming to the killing fields
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| «What shall that be? |
| What shall that be? |
| When that final moment comes.
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| When the curtains are drawn, the windows are shut, the doors close,
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| and you’ve written what you’ve written, you said it, that’s it!
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| What will it be? |
| What about it, mister. |
| When you’ve had your last beer.
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| You laughed at your family and laughed at your little wife. |
| She begged you not
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| to go out to that bar.»
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| As I feed off a dead pig, I’m thinking back
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| To when I had a heartbeat, and how I would act
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| I would steal from the poor, I’d laugh at the sick
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| But in the killing fields, you get your fucking neck ripped
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| So as I walk along, I meet a lot of strange folks
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| Some people with no eyes, and gashed open throats
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| And if they notice your eyeballs are working well
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| They try to dig em out your skull, and go for self
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| Now in the summertime, it’s like a whole 'nother realm
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| Water becomes fire, and oceans overwhelm
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| To walk outside, the heat will surely cook your brains
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| Try to run across the street your hair will burst to flames
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| Victims in a panic run from the heated light
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| Underneath the city, into the sewer pipes
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| Until the fire’s gone this becomes your new land
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| But there’s no food, so you feed off the other men
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| And now it’s been seven months, I’m barely fed
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| I chase a baby billy goat with a human’s head
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| He’s steady screaming «Let me be! |
| Let me be!»
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| But while I chase him there’s another demon chasing me
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| All of time moves backwards, I’m growing old
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| And still the clouds are burning fire, and so I’m told
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| That there’s a lot of living souls such as the rich
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| That choose to live like a bitch, I’ll see you in the Killing Fields
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| «You've had your big time of lust and sin and filth. |
| What is
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| The end going to be when you realize that time is up? |
| You’ve
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| Crossed the finish line going in the wrong direction. |
| What
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| Shall it be? |
| What about it, young man? |
| When you spent your life
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| In a few years time? |
| You’re burned out shell at 25 years of
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| Age. |
| What shall it be? |
| What about it?
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| You could go to hell (what shall it be?)
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| Come, come on down, down (you're going to the killing fields) |