He's got a whip-scarred centerfold In the trunk of his car Pocket full of spices To go with the sore It's he who's got The crania and the remnants What would he have done If suffocation wasn't portable Pages of the memory Torn out disappeared As did the severed limbs
Buckshots conflagrated the arteries In a 210 bpm cardiac march A carcass of alcohol enraptures In a 60/40 combustion/evaporation