[music - Leon del Muerte]

[lyrics - Sean McGrath]



Impacted tissue is riddled with clots 

Morbidly studying your gross anatomy 

Perinium is sullied with moldering pus

A mass of gelatinized forensick liquidity 

Locating my trocar, the tool of my trade 

Emaciated fingers nimbly find what I need 

Desiring the gavage, I hastily optate 

Into your chest intercalated as your innards I bleed 



Muscle tissue rips, my needle drips 

Proceeding with my work, I'm an insensitive jerk 

Acid from your stomach is disgorged with a splat 

Liquid offal gargles in your throat 

Embalming tubes occluded with clumps of rotting fat 

Decaying larval brine is force fed until you choke 



Impaled on a spike, internal organs are sucked 

Mellifluent gore by the buckets is drained 

Pernicious bilge is pumped from your gut

Acidic bacteria now mangle your brain 



Lactating pus

Eructating guts

Decorticated stiff

I take another sniff 



Macerated veins are with a trocar dislodged 

Playing host to my probe, your pelvis now sprays 

Abdominal saliva is splattered from your anus 

Lathering my needle, your ignominious remains 

Easing the point into delicate flesh 

Declension with steel is sublimely enmeshed 

Irrigated fluids cake the porcelain slab 

Methodically in-vaginated with bromidic scabs 



Pus, from your veins, is tapped 

A bloody awful mess, your corpse is bloodless 

Lancinated gore is sapped 

Exenterated sot, your withered cadaver will rot 



Decaying on the slab 

I take another stab 



[solo: "The Mortician's Sword" by L.d. Muerte]

[solo: "Lachrimose Germentation" by S.C. McGrath]



Muscles are imbued with a gelatinous mix 

Prepatent secretions from your bowel make me sick 

A redolent mephitis maturates in the guts 

Laughing at your humor as it seeps from the cuts 

Ensmultified with larvae, your carcass is replete 

Drawn and quarted in a morgue as innards I delete 

Ichor is liquesced and from veins gladly pumped 

My nocturnal vocation has my colleagues quite stumped 



Packed in a coffin full of salt 

An acrid scent seeps from the box 

Lye is applied as the earth is fed 

Ensconced in a tomb, for you are quite 

Dead