Music: Owen, Steer)

(Lyrics: Walker)



Insipid fumes bellow from the atrabilious chimney

Whilst in the sanctified crevet I calmly pillage and rake

For hot dry powdered human slag

Still steaming in the crematorium's grate



Bio-organic ebullition, bones tar, tallow dehydrates

For my deleterious horticulture so that I may cultivate



Your mortal mechanism dies - in nutrients rich

In the hallowed turf you lie - just for the taking



Charred sinew's as good as lime, no phosphates do I need

Deteriorated flesh used as top-soil, to replenish and nourish seed

Spreading this human potash, as ash matured

Recycling my rich harvest, bring out your dead...for use as manure...



Irrigating tears are shed, but the ground still must be fed

And there's no rest for the dead



(Lead fills: Dust in the mausoleum by W.G. Steer)



Tipping and dusting up the spilt contents of urns

Every morsel that glows like ember on the fire

Extinguishing all hope of beatrific dispatch

These charred chassis desired



Exequiet rites now performed, a coronach sooting up the flu

Enter my execrable inferno, even in the after-life there's work to do



The nitrogen content's high - but the flesh is weak

At the graveside mourners cry - you're never to wake again



(Lead: Compost humous horticulture by M. Amott)



Burnt brisket renews the ground, to germinate my seed

Cremated bodies are my spoil, to use them as plant-feed

Ploughing this abhorrent human manure

Seedling my rich harvest, bring out your dead...for the soils to devour...



Dry the dead are bled, because the ground must be fed

And there's still no rest for the dead



(Lead: Humanure by W.G. Steer)



I propagate - dust in the grate

Ashes to ashes - dust to dust, diluted in water and sprayed on crops

Charcoal, fats, flesh and soot fertilising pasture with active fertile rot



Incumbent - latent calories are spent



Ashes to ashes - dust to dust renewing the land with corpses corrupt

Mortuary scrapings, hearses a must, to the hot hearth the deceased are trussed



Harvesting the defouled, to fertilise my soil

Rejuvenating the spent with my fecundate spoils...



Reaping the gone, to nourish the land

Replenishing exhausted pasture with my uncanny sleight of hand

Restoring the unnatural balance, sowing my seed

Defalcating the departed, I rapt and glean...



So I recite my contrite lament, lacrimation for the dead

Their rest which I disturb...

Where should stand row upon row of cold grey remembrance stones

My cash crops now grow