Hunter of tears, relative to pain half of this world is dark

with the stain the stain of unknowing the dead flowe buds, on

smiling lips is innocent blood the corpse of your god can only

rot and grow cold now promise you'll kill me before I get old

I heard you on the telephone moaning my doom a cold woman will

kill me in a darkened room the chain-saw smile of the mortici-

an shines I still got all my fingers but somewhere I lost my

mind I can smell abortion on you I can see thru I ta ke the gun

out of my mouth and point it at you