Luyện nghe bài hát Symposium Of Sickness

That's why I it so amusing
That the Latter-day Saints of our
One, attribute to me motives just weren't there
And two accuse me of morality
Which I wish I had the power to do, to die

An encloaking, epoch
In which all is now appraised
Another commodity
On which the may feebly graze

homage to their mammon
Whilst the mort is the music of the
Transcendence from a beatifully brutal
Is what I

Noxious, sully
Is not the sentiment upon which we
But precocious
Draws out a nous to bleed

out seething words
Which cut deep to the bone
Always
So be it on our own

Rising to out own
Reality we try to
Trying to raise a twisted
Similar to that plate

On a coffin is joined
Hammering in each final
Last and testament
now intestate

Noxious, sully
Is not the which is bled
A train of thought
In which mental are led

out skilful words
Which shear bones
spelt out well
We just can't leave the alone

text
A doctrine of diseased minds perplexed
epigrams
Eschatological, requiems

Always our own cynics
Exorcisers of scorn
Digging our own
But stand over and mourn

The now pandemonium
Displaced in the sods
with the macabre
The dead we and rob

Munificant
From the staid

Execrations, taunting spiritual
Exoneration, the perishable we feast
Excogitation, picking at the bones of
Exculpitation, foul conflagration

text, a literary vex
The perplexed, with corporeality meshed

text
An unpleasant to a world perplexed
epigraphs
Eschatological

forever cryptic
Exercisers of grief
Helping you to dig up the
fresh still are the wreaths

The harmony now
Heard out in the dirt
Espoused the bizzare
We play on our own

Epithetic
A macabre rality

Execrations, tales of atrocities fairy
Exoneration, harsh, cold bloody
Excogitation, a eutechnique
Exculpitation, perverse artworks, so

Monographic text, a vex
The macabre perplexed with reality