Forbidden Crypts

We smelled the greasepaint in the air

They stumbled into town last night, completely unaware

Clad in shirts of mesh and with mascara on their eyes

We saw a keyboard player and we knew they had to die

They played a show at Ivan's Inn

From underneath the stage we heard the caterwauling din

They sang of forests, elves, and trolls

The urge to kill them on the spot we barely could control

After the show they all got drunk

Apparently to celebrate a set that really stunk

To the graveyard they predictably paid call

These lords of chaos whined about their tour bus being small

They spoke of Norway and the scene

The sound of laughing Ghouls reverberated through the trees

We should take some pictures! - the one in chain mail said

That's it -, Cremator growled - It's time these idiots were dead

They scattered like rats when they saw Ghoul attack

The drummer was the first to go, a hook in his back

Machetes were sinking into painted flesh

Carnage and gore soaking leather and mesh

The keyboardist begged but Fermentor just laughed

We hacked off his hands and then chopped him in half

The vocalist was strangled with his very guts

His female back-up expired from her cuts

Splattering brain pans as a matter of course

Violently murdering with no fucking remorse

Their bassist, to a boobytrap, paid a toll

His head having gained five or six extra holes

The blood from his mouth made a hot, steamy treat

We savoured the moment, then sawed off his feet

Both of the guitarists made a run for the gate

Digestor cut them off and sealed their fate

One of them cried while the other was killed

His tears did no good as his skull was still drilled

Slicing and dicing, our fanatic obsession

Of slaughtering poseurs, we've made a profession

In our forbidden

Forbidden crypts!