As your casket closes listen to the living weep
Their
Grab a hood to hide your face
Tie a shirt around
Whispering voices in darkness
Their footsteps were really quite loud
Up in the Volkov mountains
In the rubble of the
We smelled the greasepaint in the air,
They stumbled into town
One night as I crept through the cemetery gates
Seeking out
Guzzling the rot gut
Binging on the putrefied swill
Total
Instrumental
This town is a smoldering hole
Christo-fascists are in control
Out on the bog sits a mouldy old shack,
A graveyard
I'll rip the eyeballs from your head
Your innards boiled internally
Cremator
Alone in his castle the Ghoul Hunter toils,
Devising a plan
Born to a whore on a Parisian floor
In the
Reject, the king of the nerds
Treated like a social
Deep down underneath the ground
In chambers clotted with the rotting
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