Loathsome Existence
Wanion its oh so damndest soul!
with the devil-instrument it we shall reap,
after the banquet obscur'd in our thole,
its blood so lovingly across our faces smear
Lord of carnagel,
lady of carnagel,
one funeral maketh many,
swarm god's acres;
two indeed more:
blest treat of delight -
give praise for the blood it bleed...
