|
The lingering scirrhus begins to harden |
|
As the insides fall prey to putrefaction |
|
Rotting tissue turns to mush and pulp |
|
As your mind is torn by encephalitis |
|
Your cavities rot with ulcers |
|
Your infected inflammations torn |
|
Your gizzards eaten by incursive decay |
|
You're infernally rotten to the gore... |
|
Juices digested from each pus-swollen pore |
|
Insatiable hunger as I feast on the gore |
|
Nothing gives me greater pleasure |
|
Than a bowl full of chyme |
|
Maggot infested kidneys |
|
Are what I choose every time |
|
The smell of plaguing infection |
|
Is nauseatingly emetic |
|
Prolonged spumescence of stale pus |
|
Stinks like hot, putrid vomit |
|
Your body is indurate |
|
The insides are black as tar |
|
Your innards gnawed by septic hate |
|
Now a mass of empyaema |
|
Your blood is caked |
|
Dried and inconsistent |
|
Your bloody rotten gore |
|
Is now vitrescent |
