Inpropagation Lyrics
| Song | Inpropagation |
| Artist | Carcass |
| Album | Necroticism - Descanting the Insalubrious |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : Owen, Steer, Walker | |
| (Music: Owen, Steer) | |
| (Lyrics: Walker) | |
| Insipid fumes bellow from the atrabilious chimney | |
| Whilst in the sanctified crevet I calmly pillage and rake | |
| For hot dry powdered human slag | |
| Still steaming in the crematorium's grate | |
| Bio-organic ebullition, bones tar, tallow dehydrates | |
| For my deleterious horticulture so that I may cultivate | |
| Your mortal mechanism dies - in nutrients rich | |
| In the hallowed turf you lie - just for the taking | |
| Charred sinew's as good as lime, no phosphates do I need | |
| Deteriorated flesh used as top-soil, to replenish and nourish seed | |
| Spreading this human potash, as ash matured | |
| Recycling my rich harvest, bring out your dead...for use as manure... | |
| Irrigating tears are shed, but the ground still must be fed | |
| And there's no rest for the dead | |
| (Lead fills: Dust in the mausoleum by W.G. Steer) | |
| Tipping and dusting up the spilt contents of urns | |
| Every morsel that glows like ember on the fire | |
| Extinguishing all hope of beatrific dispatch | |
| These charred chassis desired | |
| Exequiet rites now performed, a coronach sooting up the flu | |
| Enter my execrable inferno, even in the after-life there's work to do | |
| The nitrogen content's high - but the flesh is weak | |
| At the graveside mourners cry - you're never to wake again | |
| (Lead: Compost humous horticulture by M. Amott) | |
| Burnt brisket renews the ground, to germinate my seed | |
| Cremated bodies are my spoil, to use them as plant-feed | |
| Ploughing this abhorrent human manure | |
| Seedling my rich harvest, bring out your dead...for the soils to devour... | |
| Dry the dead are bled, because the ground must be fed | |
| And there's still no rest for the dead | |
| (Lead: Humanure by W.G. Steer) | |
| I propagate - dust in the grate | |
| Ashes to ashes - dust to dust, diluted in water and sprayed on crops | |
| Charcoal, fats, flesh and soot fertilising pasture with active fertile rot | |
| Incumbent - latent calories are spent | |
| Ashes to ashes - dust to dust renewing the land with corpses corrupt | |
| Mortuary scrapings, hearses a must, to the hot hearth the deceased are trussed | |
| Harvesting the defouled, to fertilise my soil | |
| Rejuvenating the spent with my fecundate spoils... | |
| Reaping the gone, to nourish the land | |
| Replenishing exhausted pasture with my uncanny sleight of hand | |
| Restoring the unnatural balance, sowing my seed | |
| Defalcating the departed, I rapt and glean... | |
| So I recite my contrite lament, lacrimation for the dead | |
| Their rest which I disturb... | |
| Where should stand row upon row of cold grey remembrance stones | |
| My cash crops now grow... |
| zuo ci : Owen, Steer, Walker | |
| Music: Owen, Steer | |
| Lyrics: Walker | |
| Insipid fumes bellow from the atrabilious chimney | |
| Whilst in the sanctified crevet I calmly pillage and rake | |
| For hot dry powdered human slag | |
| Still steaming in the crematorium' s grate | |
| Bioorganic ebullition, bones tar, tallow dehydrates | |
| For my deleterious horticulture so that I may cultivate | |
| Your mortal mechanism dies in nutrients rich | |
| In the hallowed turf you lie just for the taking | |
| Charred sinew' s as good as lime, no phosphates do I need | |
| Deteriorated flesh used as topsoil, to replenish and nourish seed | |
| Spreading this human potash, as ash matured | |
| Recycling my rich harvest, bring out your dead... for use as manure... | |
| Irrigating tears are shed, but the ground still must be fed | |
| And there' s no rest for the dead | |
| Lead fills: Dust in the mausoleum by W. G. Steer | |
| Tipping and dusting up the spilt contents of urns | |
| Every morsel that glows like ember on the fire | |
| Extinguishing all hope of beatrific dispatch | |
| These charred chassis desired | |
| Exequiet rites now performed, a coronach sooting up the flu | |
| Enter my execrable inferno, even in the afterlife there' s work to do | |
| The nitrogen content' s high but the flesh is weak | |
| At the graveside mourners cry you' re never to wake again | |
| Lead: Compost humous horticulture by M. Amott | |
| Burnt brisket renews the ground, to germinate my seed | |
| Cremated bodies are my spoil, to use them as plantfeed | |
| Ploughing this abhorrent human manure | |
| Seedling my rich harvest, bring out your dead... for the soils to devour... | |
| Dry the dead are bled, because the ground must be fed | |
| And there' s still no rest for the dead | |
| Lead: Humanure by W. G. Steer | |
| I propagate dust in the grate | |
| Ashes to ashes dust to dust, diluted in water and sprayed on crops | |
| Charcoal, fats, flesh and soot fertilising pasture with active fertile rot | |
| Incumbent latent calories are spent | |
| Ashes to ashes dust to dust renewing the land with corpses corrupt | |
| Mortuary scrapings, hearses a must, to the hot hearth the deceased are trussed | |
| Harvesting the defouled, to fertilise my soil | |
| Rejuvenating the spent with my fecundate spoils... | |
| Reaping the gone, to nourish the land | |
| Replenishing exhausted pasture with my uncanny sleight of hand | |
| Restoring the unnatural balance, sowing my seed | |
| Defalcating the departed, I rapt and glean... | |
| So I recite my contrite lament, lacrimation for the dead | |
| Their rest which I disturb... | |
| Where should stand row upon row of cold grey remembrance stones | |
| My cash crops now grow... |
| zuò cí : Owen, Steer, Walker | |
| Music: Owen, Steer | |
| Lyrics: Walker | |
| Insipid fumes bellow from the atrabilious chimney | |
| Whilst in the sanctified crevet I calmly pillage and rake | |
| For hot dry powdered human slag | |
| Still steaming in the crematorium' s grate | |
| Bioorganic ebullition, bones tar, tallow dehydrates | |
| For my deleterious horticulture so that I may cultivate | |
| Your mortal mechanism dies in nutrients rich | |
| In the hallowed turf you lie just for the taking | |
| Charred sinew' s as good as lime, no phosphates do I need | |
| Deteriorated flesh used as topsoil, to replenish and nourish seed | |
| Spreading this human potash, as ash matured | |
| Recycling my rich harvest, bring out your dead... for use as manure... | |
| Irrigating tears are shed, but the ground still must be fed | |
| And there' s no rest for the dead | |
| Lead fills: Dust in the mausoleum by W. G. Steer | |
| Tipping and dusting up the spilt contents of urns | |
| Every morsel that glows like ember on the fire | |
| Extinguishing all hope of beatrific dispatch | |
| These charred chassis desired | |
| Exequiet rites now performed, a coronach sooting up the flu | |
| Enter my execrable inferno, even in the afterlife there' s work to do | |
| The nitrogen content' s high but the flesh is weak | |
| At the graveside mourners cry you' re never to wake again | |
| Lead: Compost humous horticulture by M. Amott | |
| Burnt brisket renews the ground, to germinate my seed | |
| Cremated bodies are my spoil, to use them as plantfeed | |
| Ploughing this abhorrent human manure | |
| Seedling my rich harvest, bring out your dead... for the soils to devour... | |
| Dry the dead are bled, because the ground must be fed | |
| And there' s still no rest for the dead | |
| Lead: Humanure by W. G. Steer | |
| I propagate dust in the grate | |
| Ashes to ashes dust to dust, diluted in water and sprayed on crops | |
| Charcoal, fats, flesh and soot fertilising pasture with active fertile rot | |
| Incumbent latent calories are spent | |
| Ashes to ashes dust to dust renewing the land with corpses corrupt | |
| Mortuary scrapings, hearses a must, to the hot hearth the deceased are trussed | |
| Harvesting the defouled, to fertilise my soil | |
| Rejuvenating the spent with my fecundate spoils... | |
| Reaping the gone, to nourish the land | |
| Replenishing exhausted pasture with my uncanny sleight of hand | |
| Restoring the unnatural balance, sowing my seed | |
| Defalcating the departed, I rapt and glean... | |
| So I recite my contrite lament, lacrimation for the dead | |
| Their rest which I disturb... | |
| Where should stand row upon row of cold grey remembrance stones | |
| My cash crops now grow... |
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