The Morticians 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 mortician 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