Luyện nghe bài hát Symposium Of Sickness

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

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

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

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

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

Rising to out own
Reality we try to
to raise a twisted smile
Similar to silver plate

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

Noxious, sully
Is not the thesis is bled
A precarious train of
In which cattle-trucks are led

Carving out words
Which shear bones
Always out well
We just leave the dead alone

text
A doctrine of diseased minds perplexed
epigrams
Eschatological, rotten

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

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

Munificant
From the staid

Execrations, taunting spiritual
Exoneration, upon the perishable we
Excogitation, at the bones of convention
Exculpitation, verbal conflagration

text, a literary vex
The macabre perplexed, with corporeality

text
An journey to a world perplexed
epigraphs
Eschatological

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

The harmony now
out in the muddy dirt
Espoused the bizzare
We on our own turf

Epithetic
A macabre rality

Execrations, literary tales of fairy
Exoneration, harsh, bloody marys
Excogitation, a eutechnique
Exculpitation, artworks, so unique

Monographic text, a vex
The macabre with reality meshed