Texty:
Acid Bath The Morticians Flame

get old I heard you on the telephone moaning my doom a cold woman will kill me in a darkened room the chain-saw smile of the mortician shines I still

meat is on the stick stir my pain with an ice pick pick, pick, pick pick, pick, pick pick, pick, pick the chain-saw smile of the mortician shines I still

Hunter of tears, relative to pain half of this world is dark with the stain the stain of unknowing the dead flowe buds, on smiling lips is innocent