| Song | Buried Alive |
| Artist | Direct Hit! |
| Album | Brainless God |
| He's got a carcass in the basement, | |
| and it's high time he found a replacement | |
| It'll be just like a first date, but better | |
| It's the farthest that he's been from | |
| a careful process for a quick completion, | |
| cause the bomb's just a couple clicks from his suburb | |
| So he doesn't have to please her, | |
| just apply a kitchen towel soaked with ether | |
| and sit her upright in the last car she'll ride in, | |
| drag her inside bound with duct tape | |
| under his arm, like a baby or a pound cake, | |
| set the knives out, put the IV inside her | |
| It’s gone on and on and on and on and on and on and on | |
| But he's dried out his eyes, as he's buried alive | |
| all the girls that he’s met every season | |
| Keeps a book, photographs, his victims in tact | |
| so he can have a memory of it all | |
| But the world's bound to end in a minute or ten, | |
| he knows routine's nothing but a shadow, | |
| and pasted shots of his kills are pointless frills, oh no | |
| Because the bomb’s just a couple clicks from his suburb | |
| It's his last night, so he slows down, | |
| takes a breath, doesn't have to sweat the cops now | |
| But the practice is soon to leave him exhausted, | |
| and when he wakes up she's above him, | |
| saying "Baby, let's go out enjoy the sunset - | |
| It's the last time we'll get to enjoy it, | |
| and it's the farthest that we've been from | |
| a careful process for a quick completion, | |
| because the bomb's just a couple clicks from our suburb | |
| It's not atrocious, we'll be sleeping, | |
| and the universe of course will end up weeping | |
| on the staircase in the corner. So, sorry." | |
| So the carcass in the basement | |
| became a whole lot more than a replacement | |
| It became just like a first date, but better | |
| So he dries out his eyes, as he buries alive, | |
| this doomed world that has seen its last season | |
| And the book, photographs, his victims in tact, | |
| won't leave a single memory of it all | |
| Cause the world sees the end in a minute or ten, | |
| and the routine's just a fucking shadow | |
| And all his shots of his kills were pointless frills, oh no |
| He' s got a carcass in the basement, | |
| and it' s high time he found a replacement | |
| It' ll be just like a first date, but better | |
| It' s the farthest that he' s been from | |
| a careful process for a quick completion, | |
| cause the bomb' s just a couple clicks from his suburb | |
| So he doesn' t have to please her, | |
| just apply a kitchen towel soaked with ether | |
| and sit her upright in the last car she' ll ride in, | |
| drag her inside bound with duct tape | |
| under his arm, like a baby or a pound cake, | |
| set the knives out, put the IV inside her | |
| It' s gone on and on and on and on and on and on and on | |
| But he' s dried out his eyes, as he' s buried alive | |
| all the girls that he' s met every season | |
| Keeps a book, photographs, his victims in tact | |
| so he can have a memory of it all | |
| But the world' s bound to end in a minute or ten, | |
| he knows routine' s nothing but a shadow, | |
| and pasted shots of his kills are pointless frills, oh no | |
| Because the bomb' s just a couple clicks from his suburb | |
| It' s his last night, so he slows down, | |
| takes a breath, doesn' t have to sweat the cops now | |
| But the practice is soon to leave him exhausted, | |
| and when he wakes up she' s above him, | |
| saying " Baby, let' s go out enjoy the sunset | |
| It' s the last time we' ll get to enjoy it, | |
| and it' s the farthest that we' ve been from | |
| a careful process for a quick completion, | |
| because the bomb' s just a couple clicks from our suburb | |
| It' s not atrocious, we' ll be sleeping, | |
| and the universe of course will end up weeping | |
| on the staircase in the corner. So, sorry." | |
| So the carcass in the basement | |
| became a whole lot more than a replacement | |
| It became just like a first date, but better | |
| So he dries out his eyes, as he buries alive, | |
| this doomed world that has seen its last season | |
| And the book, photographs, his victims in tact, | |
| won' t leave a single memory of it all | |
| Cause the world sees the end in a minute or ten, | |
| and the routine' s just a fucking shadow | |
| And all his shots of his kills were pointless frills, oh no |