| What the old man don’t know
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| What his eyes yet have seen
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| My sordid transpirings well into each eve
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| While I’m paid so handsomely
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| I would work here for free
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| I stitch tight each orifice
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| Once blessed with my seed
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| The lonely deceased
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| Cryptic, sewn-mouthed their secrets
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| Shameful their silence
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| Dragged down to the grave
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| What happens on the slab
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| Dies in this morgue with me
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| In these four walls my grisly playground
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| Where none rest in peace
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| No words have been spoken
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| No reprimand said
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| Concealing so carefully
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| My lust for the dead
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| Their insides are glistening
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| Curiosities fed
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| Forensically frolicking
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| While god is in bed
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| Have I gone mad?
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| Gruesome kingdom so lurid
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| Hidden so convincingly
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| They’d have my head
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| Morbid morgue of malpractice
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| I envy each death
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| Are they finally free?
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| This flesh of ours
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| An earthly cage, key six feet down in a grave
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| What harm’s been done?
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| The breathless have not any inhibition
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| Haunted in dreams of their dead faces come to life
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| Death is my business, work diligently
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| A forte I’ve taken all too seriously
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| I’m swift with the trocar, I scalpel with glee
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| Besides, I like fucking them, a small perk for me
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| The morgue is my sick whorehouse
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| Their bodies, favourite toys
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| Anointing them with ejaculate
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| All the good little girls and boys
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| They’d call me mad, sickly, lifeless devotion
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| Their blood and their innocence drained
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| What’s left unsaid
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| Guilted damnening sentence
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| If there is a god down in hell’s where I’ll be
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| This flesh of ours
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| An earthly cage, key six feet down in a grave
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| What crime’s been done?
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| The speechless won’t contest this violation
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| Cold dolls of skin
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| Mounting the slab, thrusting myself deep within
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| Though frowned upon
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| The company policy: termination |