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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

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