Semen turns to blood, which you taste with your acid teeth,
All wooden and turpid.  Rotten sour taste, like cursed wine....

Tops and touriquiettes about with that clacking sound.
The clock ticks, ticking your chain.  Ticking for you.

All of the pound...

There's nothing but glycerin sin within the air... volumetric glass clouds.

Volume of mousse...  You mouse.  you louse.

Yellow fevered so.

And you can only fool yourself so many times before disaster destroyes you.

A hollow-threaded patchwork quilt.  A myriad of disease, I am; Disgustion.