In a religion based on feces
All angels are soul-flies
And white worms find the human
The writhing human who dies
Craft shows its inverted hand
With its sickly corpsewater shine
To guide the white worms of murder
To show them where to dine
Blood sits in carrion judgement
And damns to flies
To the chitinous song
Of a billion carcass flies
Pestilence rides the maggot wind:
Blood disease flies
To swell the ranks of the dead
And animate them as they rise
By brightest crossmoon, all who die
Grease the night with the scarlet cries
The witchspawn hunt with murderworms
And sculpt with flies
Exoskeletally enslaved
The staring dead dream of the grave
From sister grief and mohter chaos
They can't be saved
The moon, in white dispassion
Will fly like a shroud of bones
To sleep from feces in the soil
To bleed from faces in the stone
Flesh for flesh, and souls to fall
Filth and madness do enthrall
The sire of sin, who with his fire
Catches us all
