The sound of vomiting to my ears like singing
now I am beginning to become erect
with illness I am obsessed in the beds of the fallen I rest
a fixation amplified the smell here is what I like best
feverishly vombing the buckets of waste wrapping myself in the filth-ridden sheets
raping the shells of the comatose to fulfill my needs
photographing bedsores cultured by my sick neglect
it's more than a job it's a love for me to walk this close with death
when you hear a flat line you know surely I'll be near
to when the reaper's sickle is drawn I am ever aware
I wish I could pull these strings in death there are finer things
malpractice forever be my bitter name
how quickly life does fade away
but a flip of the river mans coin
could send you screaming to your grave
grief stricken family watches on ceaseless prayers for an only son
"I'm afraid that nothing can be done" the moment has finally come
the wrath of a god exemplified to the pearly gates he'll soon arrive
to leave here his husk in this room of white I'm quivering at thought
pull the plug I'm begging you take the ride to the cold and blue
the reapers yellowed lichen fingers aims ever so true
the orgins of disease to be witnessed in my dreams
the flooding of the blackest blood to quence my fetid needs
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