Hunt With Murderworms, Sculpt With Flies

In a religion based on feces

All angels are soul-flies

And white worms find the human

The writhing human who dies

Craft shows its inverted hand

With its sickly corpsewater shine

To guide the white worms of murder

To show them where to dine

Blood sits in carrion judgement

And damns to flies

To the chitinous song

Of a billion carcass flies

Pestilence rides the maggot wind:

Blood disease flies

To swell the ranks of the dead

And animate them as they rise

By brightest crossmoon, all who die

Grease the night with the scarlet cries

The witchspawn hunt with murderworms

And sculpt with flies

Exoskeletally enslaved

The staring dead dream of the grave

From sister grief and mohter chaos

They can't be saved

The moon, in white dispassion

Will fly like a shroud of bones

To sleep from feces in the soil

To bleed from faces in the stone

Flesh for flesh, and souls to fall

Filth and madness do enthrall

The sire of sin, who with his fire

Catches us all