|
The pious pour their pity pure |
|
I can sell a little cure |
|
The burning flesh, the sweetest smell |
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I kiss the angel burnt in hell |
|
I watch your fallen boring fate |
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As you sweat and you masturbate |
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I'm touching you but cannot feel |
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But one small poke and you will squeal |
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Constantly commits consume |
|
Creep on to your closing tomb |
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No whiskey welcome at your door |
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Not a light for your whore |
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Not a word that |
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I can hear |
|
The stench of shit tells me you're near |
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Constantly commits consume |
|
Creep on to your closing tomb |
|
Your God is gaping |
|
Your God is waiting |
|
Your terror rises |
|
To no surprises |
|
Your God is gaping |
|
Your God is waiting |
|
Your terror rises |
|
To no surprises |
|
Mirror mirror on the wall |
|
Doberman's are in the hall |
|
Mirror mirror on the wall |
|
Take off that blindfold, face them all |
|
Mirror mirror on the wall |
|
Dope bonanza in the mall |
|
Mirror mirror on the wall |
|
Hold on tight, |
|
I'll fuck you all |
|
Constantly commits consume |
|
Creep on to your closing tomb |
|
Your God is gaping |
|
Your God is waiting |
|
Your terror rises |
|
To no surprises |
|
Your God is gaping |
|
Your God is waiting |
|
Your terror rises |
|
To no surprises |
|
Your God is gaping |
|
Your God is waiting |
|
Your terror rises |
|
To no surprises |
|
Your God is gaping |
|
Your God is waiting |
|
Your terror rises |
|
To no surprises |