Luyện nghe bài hát Symposium Of Sickness

That's why I it so amusing
That the Saints of our business
One, attribute to me that just weren't there
And two accuse me of morality
Which I wish I had the to do, prepare to die

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

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

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

Chiselling out words
cut deep down 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 silver

On a which is joined
Hammering in each final
Last kill and
now intestate

Noxious, dolour
Is not the thesis which is
A precarious of thought
In mental cattle-trucks are led

Carving out words
Which shear brittle
Always out well
We can't leave the dead alone

Monographic
A doctrine of diseased minds perplexed
Enunciated
Eschatological, rotten

our own worst cynics
Exorcisers of scorn
our own graves
But stand over and mourn

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

bale
From the deviants

Execrations, taunting release
Exoneration, upon the we feast
Excogitation, at the bones of convention
Exculpitation, verbal conflagration

Epigraphic text, a vex
The perplexed, with corporeality meshed

text
An unpleasant journey to a perplexed
Corporeal
Eschatological

forever cryptic
Exercisers of grief
you to dig up the interred
Whilst fresh are the wreaths

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

Epithetic
A rality perplexed

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

text, a literary vex
The macabre perplexed with reality