| The sound of vomiting to my ears' like singing
 | 
| Now I’m beginning to become erect
 | 
| With illness I’m obsessed in the beds of the fallen I rest
 | 
| A fixation amplified the smell here is what I like best
 | 
| Feverishly combing the buckets of waste
 | 
| Wrapping myself in the filth ridden sheets
 | 
| Raping the shells of the comatose
 | 
| To fulfill my needs
 | 
| Photographing bedsores
 | 
| Cultured by my sick neglect
 | 
| It’s more then a job
 | 
| It’s a love for me to walk this close with death
 | 
| When you hear a flat line
 | 
| You know surely I’ll be near
 | 
| To when the reaper’s sickle is drawn
 | 
| I am ever aware
 | 
| I wish I could pull these strings
 | 
| In death there are finer things
 | 
| Malpractice forever be my bitter name
 | 
| How quickly life does fade away
 | 
| One flip of the rivers man coin
 | 
| Could send you screaming to your grave
 | 
| Grief stricken family watches on
 | 
| Ceaseless prayers for an only son
 | 
| I’m afraid that nothing can be done
 | 
| The moment has finally come
 | 
| The wrath of a God exemplified
 | 
| To the pearly gates He’ll soon arrive
 | 
| To leave here his husk in this room of white
 | 
| I’m quivering at thought
 | 
| Pull the plug I’m begging you
 | 
| Take the ride to the cold and blue
 | 
| The reaper’s yellowed lichen finger
 | 
| Aims ever so true
 | 
| The origins of disease
 | 
| I have witnessed in my dreams
 | 
| The flooding of the blackest blood
 | 
| To quench my fetid needs
 | 
| I wish I could pull these strings
 | 
| In death there are finer things
 | 
| Malpractice forever be my bitter name
 | 
| I wish I could pull these strings
 | 
| In death there are finer things |