| Song | A Murmur In Decrepit Wits |
| Artist | Aborted |
| Album | Strychnine.213 |
| 作曲 : ?, Seb, Svencho | |
| Murmur - whisper to me | |
| Slithering fantasies of cleaning bones, lucid dreams | |
| Yearning to become real | |
| The luscious slitting of throats, what fantasy? | |
| These fictions so corporal so obtuse | |
| Restricting me, frustrating me | |
| The fictions so morbid seem foretold | |
| Digging in the psyche | |
| No theory, no medication, no session | |
| Can shed light upon the monster I am told to become | |
| No theory, no medication, obsession | |
| The smell of blood, the soothing of the pain mine | |
| A medical condition? No, merely purpose | |
| Decrepit wits in a mind mine | |
| These fictions so corporal so obtuse | |
| Restricting me, frustrating me | |
| The fictions so morbid seem foretold | |
| Release the rage in me | |
| Set in motion the first kill | |
| Adrenaline, rushing me | |
| The fictions so morbid fulfilled | |
| Release the real in me | |
| Swing the axe, hang the rope | |
| The tales of my coming painted in a spree of gore | |
| Do say your prayers, they shall be answered | |
| By the cutting of blades as your insides are drained | |
| No longer murmurs - in thy decrepit wits | |
| A spree of murder - unleash my insanity | |
| Meticulous plan, the fruition of years of mental disorder | |
| A spree of terror, the canvas of decay | |
| Left behind for them to find, in perspicuity | |
| Murmurs - whisper to me | |
| Slithering fantasies of cleaning bones, lucid dreams | |
| Yearning to become real | |
| The luscious slitting of throats, what fantasy? |
| zuò qǔ : ?, Seb, Svencho | |
| Murmur whisper to me | |
| Slithering fantasies of cleaning bones, lucid dreams | |
| Yearning to become real | |
| The luscious slitting of throats, what fantasy? | |
| These fictions so corporal so obtuse | |
| Restricting me, frustrating me | |
| The fictions so morbid seem foretold | |
| Digging in the psyche | |
| No theory, no medication, no session | |
| Can shed light upon the monster I am told to become | |
| No theory, no medication, obsession | |
| The smell of blood, the soothing of the pain mine | |
| A medical condition? No, merely purpose | |
| Decrepit wits in a mind mine | |
| These fictions so corporal so obtuse | |
| Restricting me, frustrating me | |
| The fictions so morbid seem foretold | |
| Release the rage in me | |
| Set in motion the first kill | |
| Adrenaline, rushing me | |
| The fictions so morbid fulfilled | |
| Release the real in me | |
| Swing the axe, hang the rope | |
| The tales of my coming painted in a spree of gore | |
| Do say your prayers, they shall be answered | |
| By the cutting of blades as your insides are drained | |
| No longer murmurs in thy decrepit wits | |
| A spree of murder unleash my insanity | |
| Meticulous plan, the fruition of years of mental disorder | |
| A spree of terror, the canvas of decay | |
| Left behind for them to find, in perspicuity | |
| Murmurs whisper to me | |
| Slithering fantasies of cleaning bones, lucid dreams | |
| Yearning to become real | |
| The luscious slitting of throats, what fantasy? |