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