Chapter III The Mortician's Lamenting Dirge
Deathnoisefrequency
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Your sons are ensanguined and dead!
O whorish wilful mothers
Throw him with stones from heaven above
Merely his joyous consolation
Don't part away now, don't part away now
This damn purgatorial throes is mine!
Where the lecherous trees don't dare to grow
Even austere winters don't dare to graciously snow
And all the almighty branches menially bow
To the dead they that nocturnally rue
Hand in hand with the unnamed grisly demon
Weeping at the bottom of the derelict fathomless well
Who will bury the abandoned we?
And yet the snow to come...