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Lurch

de Fit For An Autopsy

The flowers all shriveled and died
Nothing survives
Near the cages where they fail to keep the animals alive
The view of a grand graveside

Where martyrs reside
The fallen figures of a dream that we can’t revive
And we are tourists
Simply tourists
Watching the funeral of life

At last the last disciples burn
Eight billion parasitic worms
An ocean swallowing the shore
Pain now and pain forever more

Behind the walls we speak with candors of rats
A hidden instinct to self preserve ignore the pack
As fear transcends the greater good
Desire in control

The sentence of the skin
To walk amongst the beasts below
And we are tourists
Watching the funeral of life

Undeserving of the petty possessions
A shelf of bones your trophies bought in blood
Absent at birth an unimmaculate conception
Return to dirt allow the gardens to flood

The view of a grand graveside
There’ll be no flowers when we die
We lurch
Into our hearse

Eight billion parasitic worms
Return to the dirt
There’ll be no flowers when we die

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