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