In the of flesh and the sawing of bone, I've coaxed confessions from the lips of the dead, scrutiny that has clinically shone, The horrifying facts that would never been said... Unbosoming their secrets in the sickening results of their demise, Stomaching these wretched riddles, I carve, hack and slice, Illuminating the skeletons that lurk in closets, and entrails, Enduring the ghastly visage of violent death in my forensic travails... Whether in or completely decomposed, I asses with clinical indifference, The of a life which grisly circumstance has brought to office, Ensuring that truth shall endure after the flesh has crumbled and rotted away, Elucidating and carnage, the thankless job I perform day after day... Persistent incisions cut to the are my stock in trade, To scrutinize what remains of a life, painstaking effort will to be made, At times both evidence and flesh are profoundly encrypted and shred, It can be murder to pry from the mouths of the dead... A gutted torso can pose a bevy of answerless to deliberate, with a scalpel, I expose the morbid cavity that I now must eviscerate, Unlocking death's with my forceps, tweezers and saw, revelations from a fibula, fossa or jaw... Recording confessions that are uttered making a sound, From informants long dead that I've culled from the ground, Beneath the pallid veil of flesh or enshrouded in the shredded of a face, Exhuming the truth is my occupation, no matter how decrepit its resting place... the bowels of a horribly mutilated corpse or a splattered brain, Picking flesh and deceit til only the cold remain, Dead men will tell tales if you know how to listen and learn, when they've been stabbed, beaten, shot, hacked up and burned... This morbid quest for is not without its rewards, Much can be extrapolated from a decrepit infants gourd, My a slab, my text is a corpse, and I've studied with sincere, ardent fervor, And that man's inhumanity to man is all to well deserved...