Carcass

(Music: Owen)
(Lyrics: Walker)
An encloaking, dark epoch
In which all life is now appraised
Another valueless commodity
On which the rapacious may feebly graze
Indebted homage to their mammon
Whilst the mort is the music of the meek
Transcendence from a beautifully brutal reality
Is what I seek...
Noxious, sully dolour
Is not the sentiment upon which we feed
But precocious consciousness
Draws out a morbid nous to bleed
Chiselling out seething words
Which cut deep down to the bone
Always legible
So be it on our own headstone...
(Lead trem: Necrononism by M. Amott)
Rising to our own nadir
Reality we try to extirpate
Trying to raise a twisted smile
Similar to that silver plate
On a coffin which is joined
Hammering in each final nail
Last kill and testament
Left now intestate...
Noxious, sully dolour
Is not the thesis which is bled
A precarious train of thought
In which mental cattle-trucks are led
Carving out skilful words
Which shear brittle bones
Always spelt out well
We just can't leave the dead alone...
Monographic text
A terminal doctrine of diseased minds perplexed
Enunciated epigrams
Eschatological, rotten requiems
Always our own worst cynics