Lyrics

The devil stole your brain and your reduced to skin and bone.
Why do I keep waiting for the punchline?
Maybe tomorrow, but how can I think about tomorrow
when you might not last the day?

The portrait of a saint has been consumed by charcoal paint.
All the cracks in the pavement turn to faultlines.
But what could I do?
And what could I have done
but bear witness to the death of an angel
when love was not an option?

Dum spiras adhuc spes est.

You're breathing through a machine;
I wish I could suck the poison out,
but the spiders rest for nothing
until they have eaten their whole way out.
The spiders sing:

Omnes hores vulnerant, ultima hore nectat.

This is the work of god.