Badlees

 





The clawing on the door can only mean I'm fucked in possibly more ways than one

The gnawing and the gnashing of the bone

I'm contiplating suicide and cliche L.P. heresy

We gorge our plates with scene and dine

It's a perfect time for meals to go down choking and tasteless like most forced media

The shows a go don't count your blessings

I'll take my place among the crowd and watch the corpse like stillnesss chill the air

I'll take substance over style any day that revolts' revolt

I perform for the undead

I perform for the androgynistic, well-sadistic, doomed and tragic dead

I want to rip your throat tonight

I want to see you bleed in agony

Ritualized and sacraficed

Your shitty scene's a self-induced Hell that we create

Come on baby let me hear you scream

We are the flailing dead

We sweat

We bled

Your still preaching the fiction to spite what I said