Luyện nghe bài hát Symposium Of Sickness

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

An encloaking, epoch
In which all is now appraised
valueless commodity
On which the paracious may graze

Indebted homage to their
Whilst the mort is the of the meek
Transcendence from a beatifully reality
Is I seek

Noxious, dolour
Is not the upon which we feed
But consciousness
Draws out a morbid nous to

out seething words
Which cut down to the bone
legible
So be it on our own

to out own nadir
Reality we try to
to raise a twisted smile
Similar to that silver

On a coffin which is
Hammering in final nail
Last and testament
Left now

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

Carving out skilful
Which shear brittle
Always spelt out
We just can't leave the dead

Monographic
A doctrine of diseased minds perplexed
Enunciated
Eschatological, rotten

Always our own cynics
of scorching scorn
Digging our own
But never stand over and

The roulade now
Displaced in the sods
Espoused the macabre
The we filch and rob

bale
From the staid

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

text, a literary vex
The macabre perplexed, with meshed

text
An unpleasant journey to a perplexed
Corporeal
Eschatological

Always cryptic
Exercisers of twisted
you to dig up the interred
Whilst fresh still are the

The now pandemonium
Heard out in the dirt
Espoused with the
We on our own turf

text
A macabre perplexed

Execrations, literary tales of fairy
Exoneration, harsh, cold bloody
Excogitation, a narcissistic
Exculpitation, perverse artworks, so

Monographic text, a vex
The macabre perplexed with reality