With a hose
No one will ever find you
The smell of your carrion hangs low in the street
Weeks of returning to relax in the meat
Butcherymorgue meets day-spa retreat
The smell of the carnage
Begin the excretement
Choice picked tidbits of ligaments
I mix for an afternoon sludge soup
Constantly craving, needing to eat shit
No escape from this place
Life condemned to rot
Pulpy ulcerous filaments
Gagged snot and clots
