I am the god of gods Master of the arts I desecrate the chaste Writhe in the flesh Blasphemy Chant the blasphemy Mockery of the messiah We curse
Soft like wildflowers by rivers and streams Thoughts washing over me like the stuff of my dreams And I see it coming true We'll be soft like you, we'll
Confront me unholy ones Bastard saints scorn of the earth I summon thee now poison me Death under will burn in my soul Exalt me enemies of the lamb Intrude
The church preaches disgrace to it's believers illusions, morbid hopes miserables abort miserables Mankind eats shit of their fake gods continous suffering
ethereal, my children are legion serial They stick to my skin like beloved cysts I tear away with my nails and teeth that fists Touch the hands of inverted saints
That's why I find it so amusing That the Latter-day Saints of our business One, attribute to me motives that just weren't there And two accuse me of corrupting
the sumptuous one in black and those Whose lives were thrown in with the dead The candles lit, the stage was set As it was in sainted days When censers
easy murder Your thirst is spreading to a morbid ground. Never felt prickle you feel. Cause pain more and more! "None of us are saints" Serial killing
in hand Fly through the night which has no end Into the land where you're condemned Messiah from the grave Lead the corpse of hell Behold, the morbid saint
hands dig upward searching for moonlight the fog rolls in so thickly it creeps into your mind frozen winds of winter pound like an icy hand morbid lifeless
The sound of flowing waters will wash away my impure thougths Paintings of saints are burning A thousand times I join my hands Evil forces outside
et la beautA© Au baiser de vermeil Endigue une relation platonique IngA©nue tu m'A©merveilles Je hais toujours la femme jolie Le soleil dardant Ses saints
ethereal, my children are legion, serial They stick to my skin like beloved cysts I tear away with my nails and teeth and fists Touch the hands of inverted saints
beyond appearances. The blade of my brain is ready to believe... there's the need of something else... I'LL TRY TO BREAK THE SILLY THINGS, (THE) MORBID BRAIN OF A SAINT
The blade of my brain is ready to believe: there's the need of something else? I'LL TRY TO BREAK THE SILLY THINGS, (THE) MORBID BRAIN OF A SAINT WITHOUT
the sumptuous one in black and those Whose lives where thrown in with the dead The candles lit, the stage was set As it was in sainted days When censers
et la Lune etait vide et glauque comme le courrier du fan-club d'une idole et pour m'extrapoler loin de cette idee morbide je m'filmais un documentaire
