There with them is error We are sacrosanct A taunting of ravens to you My swarms have fit the holster My faith burnt every house Like no other manger I am emptier with doubt
Bare them Sevens Three to a pall Marks the Venom Lush and terminal
When I became your larvae You fed me from your plates Now my slouch is nervous Sinking by the face Wrinkled by this gravel Skinless trace of time Wear your cobwebs proudly In your cheap and brittle sight My glands emit this carnage These pews bend back your knees
That uniform it wears you When the ultimatum pleads
Bare them Sevens Three to a pall Marks the Venom Lush and terminal
That cesspool it becomes you Just north of the eyebrows Squat the hole for a pucker When the rations go blonde The salted stitch is patient Waiting to engulf There is plasma from this hoax Pretending to be us
Embalming all the fluids I must I must I prefer to burn it I must I must
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