Exhumed Post-Mortem Procedures Lyrics:
In the dissection of flesh and the sawing of bone,
I've coaxed confessions from the lips of the dead,
Postmortem scrutiny that has clinically shone, The
horrifying facts that would have never been
said... Unbosoming their secrets in the sickening
results of their demise, Stomaching these wretched
human riddles, I carve, hack and slice,
Illuminating the dusty skeletons that lurk in
closets, bones and entrails, Enduring the ghastly
visage of violent death in my forensic travails...
Whether in pieces or completely decomposed, I
asses with clinical indifference, The remnants of
a life which grisly circumstance has brought to
this office, Ensuring that truth shall endure
after the flesh has crumbled and rotted away,
Elucidating atrocities and carnage, the thankless
job I perform day after day... Persistent
incisions that cut to the quick are my stock in
trade, To scrutinize what remains of a life,
painstaking effort will have to be made, At times
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both evidence and flesh are profoundly encrypted
and shred, It can be murder to pry answers from
the mouths of the dead... A gutted torso can pose
a bevy of answerless questions to deliberate,
Probing with a scalpel, I expose the morbid cavity
that I now must eviscerate, Unlocking death's
mysteries with my forceps, tweezers and saw,
Wringing revelations from a fibula, fossa or
jaw... Recording confessions that are uttered
without making a sound, From informants long dead
that I've culled from the ground, Beneath the
pallid veil of cold flesh or enshrouded in the
shredded remains of a face, Exhuming the truth is
my occupation, no matter how decrepit its resting
place... Within the bowels of a horribly mutilated
corpse or a splattered brain, Picking apart flesh
and deceit ”til only the cold facts remain, Dead
men will tell tales if you know how to listen and
learn, Even when they've been stabbed, beaten,
shot, hacked up and burned... This morbid quest
for knowledge is not without its rewards, Much can
be extrapolated from a decrepit infants gourd, My
bureau's a slab, my text is a corpse, and I've
studied with sincere, ardent fervor, And found
that often man's inhumanity to man is all to well
deserved...
Lyrics: Post-Mortem Procedures, Exhumed [end]