Song | Symposium of Sickness |
Artist | Carcass |
Album | Necroticism - Descanting the Insalubrious |
Download | Image LRC TXT |
作词 : Owen, Walker | |
That's why | |
I find it so amusing | |
That the Latter-day | |
Saints of our business | |
One, attribute to me motives that just weren't there | |
And two accuse me of corrupting morality | |
Which I wish | |
I had the power to do, prepare to die | |
An encloaking, dark epoch | |
In which all life is now appraised | |
Another valueless commodity | |
On which the paracious may feebly graze | |
Indebted homage to their mammon | |
Whilst the mort is the music of the meek | |
Transcendence from a beatifully brutal reality | |
Is what I seek | |
Noxious, sully dolour | |
Is not the sentiment upon which we feed | |
But precocious consciousness | |
Draws out a morbid nous to bleed | |
Chiselling out seething words | |
Which cut deep down to the bone | |
Always legible | |
So be it on our own headstone | |
Rising to out own nadir | |
Reality we try to extirpate | |
Trying to raise a twisted smile | |
Similar to that silver plate | |
On a coffin which is joined | |
Hammering in each final nail | |
Last kill and testament | |
Left now intestate | |
Noxious, sully dolour | |
Is not the thesis which is bled | |
A precarious train of thought | |
In which mental cattle-trucks are led | |
Carving out skilful words | |
Which shear brittle bones | |
Always spelt out well | |
We just can't leave the dead alone | |
Monographic text | |
A terminal doctrine of diseased minds perplexed | |
Enunciated epigrams | |
Eschatological, rotten requiems | |
Always our own worst cynics | |
Exorcisers of scorching scorn | |
Digging our own graves | |
But never stand over and mourn | |
The roulade now pandemonium | |
Displaced in the muggy sods | |
Espoused with the macabre | |
The dead we filch and rob | |
Munificant bale | |
From the deviants staid | |
Execrations, taunting spiritual release | |
Exoneration, upon the perishable we feast | |
Excogitation, picking at the bones of convention | |
Exculpitation, foul verbal conflagration | |
Epigraphic text, a literary vex | |
The macabre perplexed, with corporeality meshed | |
Euthenic text | |
An unpleasant journey to a world perplexed | |
Corporeal epigraphs | |
Eschatological unpleasantness | |
Always forever cryptic | |
Exercisers of twisted grief | |
Helping you to dig up the interred | |
Whilst fresh still are the wreaths | |
The harmony now pandemonium | |
Heard out in the muddy dirt | |
Espoused with the bizzare | |
We play on our own turf | |
Epithetic text | |
A macabre rality perplexed | |
Execrations, literary tales of atrocities fairy | |
Exoneration, harsh, cold bloody marys | |
Excogitation, a narcissistic eutechnique | |
Exculpitation, perverse artworks, so unique | |
Monographic text, a literary vex | |
The macabre perplexed with reality meshed |
zuo ci : Owen, Walker | |
That' s why | |
I find it so amusing | |
That the Latterday | |
Saints of our business | |
One, attribute to me motives that just weren' t there | |
And two accuse me of corrupting morality | |
Which I wish | |
I had the power to do, prepare to die | |
An encloaking, dark epoch | |
In which all life is now appraised | |
Another valueless commodity | |
On which the paracious may feebly graze | |
Indebted homage to their mammon | |
Whilst the mort is the music of the meek | |
Transcendence from a beatifully brutal reality | |
Is what I seek | |
Noxious, sully dolour | |
Is not the sentiment upon which we feed | |
But precocious consciousness | |
Draws out a morbid nous to bleed | |
Chiselling out seething words | |
Which cut deep down to the bone | |
Always legible | |
So be it on our own headstone | |
Rising to out own nadir | |
Reality we try to extirpate | |
Trying to raise a twisted smile | |
Similar to that silver plate | |
On a coffin which is joined | |
Hammering in each final nail | |
Last kill and testament | |
Left now intestate | |
Noxious, sully dolour | |
Is not the thesis which is bled | |
A precarious train of thought | |
In which mental cattletrucks are led | |
Carving out skilful words | |
Which shear brittle bones | |
Always spelt out well | |
We just can' t leave the dead alone | |
Monographic text | |
A terminal doctrine of diseased minds perplexed | |
Enunciated epigrams | |
Eschatological, rotten requiems | |
Always our own worst cynics | |
Exorcisers of scorching scorn | |
Digging our own graves | |
But never stand over and mourn | |
The roulade now pandemonium | |
Displaced in the muggy sods | |
Espoused with the macabre | |
The dead we filch and rob | |
Munificant bale | |
From the deviants staid | |
Execrations, taunting spiritual release | |
Exoneration, upon the perishable we feast | |
Excogitation, picking at the bones of convention | |
Exculpitation, foul verbal conflagration | |
Epigraphic text, a literary vex | |
The macabre perplexed, with corporeality meshed | |
Euthenic text | |
An unpleasant journey to a world perplexed | |
Corporeal epigraphs | |
Eschatological unpleasantness | |
Always forever cryptic | |
Exercisers of twisted grief | |
Helping you to dig up the interred | |
Whilst fresh still are the wreaths | |
The harmony now pandemonium | |
Heard out in the muddy dirt | |
Espoused with the bizzare | |
We play on our own turf | |
Epithetic text | |
A macabre rality perplexed | |
Execrations, literary tales of atrocities fairy | |
Exoneration, harsh, cold bloody marys | |
Excogitation, a narcissistic eutechnique | |
Exculpitation, perverse artworks, so unique | |
Monographic text, a literary vex | |
The macabre perplexed with reality meshed |
zuò cí : Owen, Walker | |
That' s why | |
I find it so amusing | |
That the Latterday | |
Saints of our business | |
One, attribute to me motives that just weren' t there | |
And two accuse me of corrupting morality | |
Which I wish | |
I had the power to do, prepare to die | |
An encloaking, dark epoch | |
In which all life is now appraised | |
Another valueless commodity | |
On which the paracious may feebly graze | |
Indebted homage to their mammon | |
Whilst the mort is the music of the meek | |
Transcendence from a beatifully brutal reality | |
Is what I seek | |
Noxious, sully dolour | |
Is not the sentiment upon which we feed | |
But precocious consciousness | |
Draws out a morbid nous to bleed | |
Chiselling out seething words | |
Which cut deep down to the bone | |
Always legible | |
So be it on our own headstone | |
Rising to out own nadir | |
Reality we try to extirpate | |
Trying to raise a twisted smile | |
Similar to that silver plate | |
On a coffin which is joined | |
Hammering in each final nail | |
Last kill and testament | |
Left now intestate | |
Noxious, sully dolour | |
Is not the thesis which is bled | |
A precarious train of thought | |
In which mental cattletrucks are led | |
Carving out skilful words | |
Which shear brittle bones | |
Always spelt out well | |
We just can' t leave the dead alone | |
Monographic text | |
A terminal doctrine of diseased minds perplexed | |
Enunciated epigrams | |
Eschatological, rotten requiems | |
Always our own worst cynics | |
Exorcisers of scorching scorn | |
Digging our own graves | |
But never stand over and mourn | |
The roulade now pandemonium | |
Displaced in the muggy sods | |
Espoused with the macabre | |
The dead we filch and rob | |
Munificant bale | |
From the deviants staid | |
Execrations, taunting spiritual release | |
Exoneration, upon the perishable we feast | |
Excogitation, picking at the bones of convention | |
Exculpitation, foul verbal conflagration | |
Epigraphic text, a literary vex | |
The macabre perplexed, with corporeality meshed | |
Euthenic text | |
An unpleasant journey to a world perplexed | |
Corporeal epigraphs | |
Eschatological unpleasantness | |
Always forever cryptic | |
Exercisers of twisted grief | |
Helping you to dig up the interred | |
Whilst fresh still are the wreaths | |
The harmony now pandemonium | |
Heard out in the muddy dirt | |
Espoused with the bizzare | |
We play on our own turf | |
Epithetic text | |
A macabre rality perplexed | |
Execrations, literary tales of atrocities fairy | |
Exoneration, harsh, cold bloody marys | |
Excogitation, a narcissistic eutechnique | |
Exculpitation, perverse artworks, so unique | |
Monographic text, a literary vex | |
The macabre perplexed with reality meshed |