The scabs start to itch: 
These wounds don't want to heal. 
Maybe the whole dermis should be removed 
before the germs gangrene the soul. 
Suffering the torments of the alchemist 
trapped in the tenth tomb of the eight circle 
and whose nails tear his corrupted body to pieces, 
but the mange keeps on eating the epidermis, 
until nothing is left to infect. 

Truly, flesh is the kingdom of the Lord, 
the Devil's stronghold. 
His odious tongue licks the limbs 
so they never turn healthy again. 

Welcome to the playground of entropic forces, 
where everything is built out of sand, 
where bodies are at war against themselves, 
where bodies are at war against themselves, 

It's growing, crawling under skin, 
the hornedmetastasis forever hungry, 
devouring a road leading nowhere anyway. 
All beauty ends up in ugliness; 
all that you love is condemned 
to turn into liquid rottenness 
stagnating in the foulest resspits of this sick world. 

Truly, flesh is the kingdom of the Lord, 
the Devil's stronghold.