The Mortician's Flame
Hunter of tears, relative to pain half of this world is dark
with the stain the stain of unknowing the dead flowe buds, on
smiling lips is innocent blood the corpse of your god can only
rot and grow cold now promise you'll kill me before I get old
I heard you on the telephone moaning my doom a cold woman will
kill me in a darkened room the chain-saw smile of the mortici-
an shines I still got all my fingers but somewhere I lost my
mind I can smell abortion on you I can see thru I take the gun
out of my mouth and point it at you
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