(musick & lyrixxx - Matt Harvey, 1997)
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 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...
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