Luyện nghe bài hát Symposium Of Sickness

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

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

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

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

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 twisted
Similar to silver plate

On a coffin is joined
Hammering in each final
kill and testament
Left now

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

out skilful words
Which shear brittle
spelt out well
We just can't leave the dead

Monographic
A terminal doctrine of diseased perplexed
epigrams
Eschatological, rotten

Always our own cynics
Exorcisers of scorn
our own graves
But never over and mourn

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

bale
From the staid

Execrations, taunting release
Exoneration, the perishable we feast
Excogitation, at the bones of convention
Exculpitation, foul verbal

text, a literary vex
The macabre perplexed, with corporeality

text
An unpleasant to a world perplexed
Corporeal
Eschatological

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

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

Epithetic
A macabre rality

Execrations, literary of atrocities fairy
Exoneration, harsh, cold bloody
Excogitation, a eutechnique
Exculpitation, artworks, so unique

Monographic text, a vex
The macabre perplexed reality meshed