Luyện nghe bài hát Symposium Of Sickness

That's why I find it so
That the Saints of our business
One, attribute to me motives 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 is now appraised
Another valueless
On the paracious may feebly graze

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

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

Chiselling out seething
cut deep down to the bone
Always
So be it on our own

to out own nadir
Reality we try to
Trying to raise a smile
Similar to silver plate

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

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

out skilful words
Which brittle bones
spelt out well
We just can't the dead alone

Monographic
A terminal doctrine of diseased minds
Enunciated
Eschatological, requiems

Always our own worst
Exorcisers of scorn
Digging our own
But never over and mourn

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

Munificant
the deviants staid

Execrations, spiritual release
Exoneration, the perishable we feast
Excogitation, at the bones of convention
Exculpitation, verbal conflagration

Epigraphic text, a vex
The macabre perplexed, corporeality meshed

Euthenic
An journey to a world perplexed
Corporeal
unpleasantness

Always forever
Exercisers of grief
you to dig up the interred
Whilst still are the wreaths

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

text
A macabre rality

Execrations, tales of atrocities fairy
Exoneration, harsh, cold marys
Excogitation, a eutechnique
Exculpitation, artworks, so unique

text, a literary vex
The macabre with reality meshed