The racket you make when you breathe
Smothered by the outmost relief
The mighty release
On a misanthropic scale
Ornaments of your travesty
Lay a sore sight to my eyes
I will let you run your course
Greet your demise

This world was never my own
With all the wrong turns taken before
Your idol has fallen ill
Within the confines of your own disease

With all the filth below
It rises in macabre triumph

The ornaments of your travesty
Lay a sore sight to my eyes
Therefore I must work in
Your worst interest
Watching you build your own hearse
Fuel it with overkill
I leave this sanctum of misery
At the grave of fruitless faith