Song | Consuming Impulse |
Artist | Exhumed |
Album | Anatomy Is Destiny |
作曲 : Matt | |
Your dry throat creaks without a saliva to sputter | |
As your pulpy dehydrated tongue soundlessly threshes | |
Days without sustenance spent shackled and fettered | |
Emaciated torso aches for the warm taste of flesh... | |
I will make a meal of you, your hunger I'll sate | |
Saw off your leg at the knee to put on your dinner plate | |
Try not to wince at the pain that you feel | |
As I mince up your calf to prepare your next meal... | |
Cauterise the gargled wound to stave off the haemorrhage | |
You should savor the thought of your repast | |
Choke down this bitter meal in spite of your revulsion | |
Though how long can your source of food last? | |
Keeping yourself alive as you're force-fed your own flesh | |
If you don't eat up, you're truly dead meat | |
Legs turned to stumps, bloody drinks gargled in clumps | |
In this case you really are what you eat... | |
Autophagous gluttony | |
Culinary pathology | |
Dietary butchery | |
Consuming impulse | |
Ingest your corpse to be... | |
Quadriplegic you feed as your dinner is served | |
Waste not ; want not, though there's not much to conserve | |
Severed and severely served upon a platter of splatter | |
After a while the source of the sustenance barely even matters... | |
Now a half-eaten torso gorged to the glut | |
Piece by piece you are fed the chicest cuts | |
As the dinner-bell rings your bloody chops are feverishly licked | |
At the sight of your own roasted fat turned and browned on a spit... | |
Your own meat in your mouth tastes bitter and internecine | |
Noxious and moist, you get a taste of your own medicine | |
Gnashing, pieces of your limbs with delight | |
Digesting your death with each grotesque bloody bite | |
What's eating you? The question seems to moot | |
Scraping chunks of your feet out of your blood-soaked sopping boot | |
Bash open bones picked clean to suckle at the marrow | |
As your culinary milieu of options inexorably narrows... | |
Autophagous gluttony | |
Culinary pathology | |
Dietary butchery | |
Consuming impulse | |
Ingest your corpse to be... | |
Feeding time comes again, the thorax falls victim to this slaughter | |
Blood, pus and sebum replace wine, whiskey and water | |
Sometimes survival will cost you an arm and a leg | |
Your spittle running, red with bits of reeking bloody dregs... | |
(Lead ' Mike) | |
Masticate your own genitals, choke on your bludgeoned testicles | |
With a hunger that will not be denied | |
The sweetest of meats is your soft, fatty teats | |
That I'll be stuffing your face with tonight | |
Puking up your own skin, just to devour it again | |
Is a treat you'll save for dessert | |
Fresh meat for your lunch, fibula cracked, drained and crunched | |
As your overstuffed gullet gasps and blurts... | |
Your crudely resected anatomy is a wretched grisly sight | |
But your stumps once arms just whet your appetite | |
Nibbling at the sinews of your bloody forearms and wrists | |
Ravenously devouring your shredded survival in fleshly chunks and meaty bits... | |
Eviscerate yourself to gnaw at your own intestines | |
Bones from severed fingers facilitate this haphazard self-dissection | |
Clutch at grume inside your bowels with half-eaten grubby stumps | |
Pulling out the repugnant meal in grotesque tumescent clumps... | |
Remaining fingers prying off your succulent gouged out gums | |
Gnaw at your stringy cheek lining and masticate your insatiable tongue | |
But the pieces you ingest in carnivorous abandon | |
Fall out of the gaping that you have torn in your intestines | |
Gnash the meat from your avulsed face in a frenzied rush | |
No genitals, no feet, no legs, no appendage left uncrushed | |
Half-eaten tongue oozes spittle down your face ' your hunger undiminished | |
Only when your partially devoured innards prolapse will this meal at last be finished | |
Autophagous gluttony | |
Culinary pathology | |
Dietary butchery | |
Consuming impulse | |
Excrete your corpse to be... |
zuò qǔ : Matt | |
Your dry throat creaks without a saliva to sputter | |
As your pulpy dehydrated tongue soundlessly threshes | |
Days without sustenance spent shackled and fettered | |
Emaciated torso aches for the warm taste of flesh... | |
I will make a meal of you, your hunger I' ll sate | |
Saw off your leg at the knee to put on your dinner plate | |
Try not to wince at the pain that you feel | |
As I mince up your calf to prepare your next meal... | |
Cauterise the gargled wound to stave off the haemorrhage | |
You should savor the thought of your repast | |
Choke down this bitter meal in spite of your revulsion | |
Though how long can your source of food last? | |
Keeping yourself alive as you' re forcefed your own flesh | |
If you don' t eat up, you' re truly dead meat | |
Legs turned to stumps, bloody drinks gargled in clumps | |
In this case you really are what you eat... | |
Autophagous gluttony | |
Culinary pathology | |
Dietary butchery | |
Consuming impulse | |
Ingest your corpse to be... | |
Quadriplegic you feed as your dinner is served | |
Waste not nbsp want not, though there' s not much to conserve | |
Severed and severely served upon a platter of splatter | |
After a while the source of the sustenance barely even matters... | |
Now a halfeaten torso gorged to the glut | |
Piece by piece you are fed the chicest cuts | |
As the dinnerbell rings your bloody chops are feverishly licked | |
At the sight of your own roasted fat turned and browned on a spit... | |
Your own meat in your mouth tastes bitter and internecine | |
Noxious and moist, you get a taste of your own medicine | |
Gnashing, pieces of your limbs with delight | |
Digesting your death with each grotesque bloody bite | |
What' s eating you? The question seems to moot | |
Scraping chunks of your feet out of your bloodsoaked sopping boot | |
Bash open bones picked clean to suckle at the marrow | |
As your culinary milieu of options inexorably narrows... | |
Autophagous gluttony | |
Culinary pathology | |
Dietary butchery | |
Consuming impulse | |
Ingest your corpse to be... | |
Feeding time comes again, the thorax falls victim to this slaughter | |
Blood, pus and sebum replace wine, whiskey and water | |
Sometimes survival will cost you an arm and a leg | |
Your spittle running, red with bits of reeking bloody dregs... | |
Lead ' Mike | |
Masticate your own genitals, choke on your bludgeoned testicles | |
With a hunger that will not be denied | |
The sweetest of meats is your soft, fatty teats | |
That I' ll be stuffing your face with tonight | |
Puking up your own skin, just to devour it again | |
Is a treat you' ll save for dessert | |
Fresh meat for your lunch, fibula cracked, drained and crunched | |
As your overstuffed gullet gasps and blurts... | |
Your crudely resected anatomy is a wretched grisly sight | |
But your stumps once arms just whet your appetite | |
Nibbling at the sinews of your bloody forearms and wrists | |
Ravenously devouring your shredded survival in fleshly chunks and meaty bits... | |
Eviscerate yourself to gnaw at your own intestines | |
Bones from severed fingers facilitate this haphazard selfdissection | |
Clutch at grume inside your bowels with halfeaten grubby stumps | |
Pulling out the repugnant meal in grotesque tumescent clumps... | |
Remaining fingers prying off your succulent gouged out gums | |
Gnaw at your stringy cheek lining and masticate your insatiable tongue | |
But the pieces you ingest in carnivorous abandon | |
Fall out of the gaping that you have torn in your intestines | |
Gnash the meat from your avulsed face in a frenzied rush | |
No genitals, no feet, no legs, no appendage left uncrushed | |
Halfeaten tongue oozes spittle down your face ' your hunger undiminished | |
Only when your partially devoured innards prolapse will this meal at last be finished | |
Autophagous gluttony | |
Culinary pathology | |
Dietary butchery | |
Consuming impulse | |
Excrete your corpse to be... |