Vārdi: Tear Garden. Empathy With The Devil.

My flavor is the stuff of locusts. Hot chili firebrand spitting volcano
teeth. Bleeding skies, sulpher mines... The foul breath of Satan's favorite
gutter worm. You feel me when I'm close - an ice wind of steel stilettos
hammered in your spine. Quicksilver nausea spinning, spewing forth and
everything's a mess. every posession you ever had - wrecked - lying at your
feet. Telegrams that tell you God is dead piled high on the TV. The
incessant TV. Burbling. Distorted. A cheesecake nun advertising 20 brands
of sea cow lemon shit in 60 different languages. A gargoyle handjives for
the hard of hearing. Subliminals. Criminals. Phoney buisinessmen in thick
rimmed glasses. Bad comedians. Laughing bags aping the Hallelujah chorus -
the forgotton version - out of key (slightly). Just enough to annoy you.

My flavor is cheap perfume on rotting Man-Ray maggots! Dead maggots. My
flavor's a wound re-opening by surprise, green fishes eyes flowing out.
Wriggling things. Gelatinous. Still alive and screaming - out of key
(slightly). Just enough to annoy you. My flavor's a plunging elevator a
millisecond before it hits the cellar. A cellar with mutated rats. Old -
very old - lost teeth. Abortions. Garbage. So pungent it hums - out of
key (slightly). Just enough to annoy you. My flavor's your flavor. Deep
within you. Hidden. Waiting to get out...