The sound of vomiting, to my ears like singing, now I'm 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 combing the buckets of waste, wrapping myself in the filth-ridden sheets. Raping the souls 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 flatline, 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 man's 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. His moment has finally come. The wrath of God exemplified, to the pearly he'll soon arrive. To leave here his husk in this room of white, I'm quivering at the thought.
Pull the plug (I'm begging you), take the ride to the cold and blue. The reaper's yellow lichen finger aims ever so true. The origins of disease I have witnessed in my dreams. The flooding of the blackest blood to quench my fetid needs.
I wish I could pull these strings. In death there are finer things. Malpractice forever be my bitter name. I wish I could pull these strings. In death there are finer things