The Black Dahlia Murder

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