All the world's indeed a corpse, and we are merely maggots

Dead on arrival is our only course, and if the toe fits, tag it

Sycophants, we're writhing blind, feeding off each others' regurgitation

Disgorging whatever waste we find, breeding our degradation with each

exhalation...



Lambs to the slaughter

Feast of fools upon the fodder

No trompe l'oreil to behold

Just a wretched drama to unfold...



Gnarled within this mortal coil

Within which the voracious feebly toil

Enamored of our own disease

We revel in our own grotesqueries...



Dissecting ourselves to find nothing alive

Just a mass of perversely animated pieces

Nothing within worthwhile to revive

We're mired knee-deep in our own fetid feces



Gorging our gnawing jaws with our own pathological waste

Like grubs wriggling in the rank feast of decay

We grind our own bones into dust each futile step we take

As we inch unseeing through day after day...



Consumer or consumed

We all end up as chyme and grume

Upon the fetid mass we choke

Leaving us in no position to appreciate the sick joke...



Twisted through this mortal coil

Now our unctuous desserts are brought to a boil

Somewhere between the living and the deceased

We gag on the feast of our grotesqueries...



[Lead - Mike]



Too consumed by consumption to see our own ends

We're all dead and only getting deader

Digging our own graves into which we gladly descend

In this cold coil we're shackled and fettered



As we ingest each others' waste, in a frenzied feeding rush

Leaving everything sick and dead in our wake

Devouring each other in ravening, unheeding crush

As we gorge ourselves on all the tripe and offal we can intake...-a