In a religion based on feces,
all angels are soul-flies,
and white worms find the human,
the writhing human who dies
Craft shows its inverted hand,
with its sickly corpsewater shine,
to guide the white worms of Murder,
to show them where to dine
Blood sits in carrion Judgement
and damns to flies
to the chitinous song
of a billion carcass flies
Pestilence rides the Maggot Wind:
blood disease flies
to swell the ranks of the dead
and animate them as they rise
By brightest Crossmoon, all who die
grease the night with the scarlet cries;
the Witchspawn hunt with murderworms
and sculpt with flies
Exoskeletally enslaved,
the staring dead dream of the Grave
from Sister Grief and Mohter Chaos,
they can't be saved
the moon, in white dispassion,
will fly like a shroud of bones,
to sleep from feces in the soil,
to bleed from faces in the stone
Flesh for flesh, and souls to fall,
Filth and Madness do enthrall
the Sire of sin, who with his Fire
catches us all