Pure Thrill

Beacon of Hell


He'll make you eat your words
In ways too strange to be absurd
Filling the six-feet tomb with dirt
Beating you up like he's gone berserk.

Back and forth
Up and down
Inside and out
Pleasure, without.

Shave the flesh to the bone
Sneering with spite in his tone
Fearing your way to be alone
Amassing blood in revered cone.

Darkly deep we go all the way
Sometime soon he'll make you pay
Take the heed each to utter and say
Never ever commence this certain fray.

Poignant sorrows
High and low
Ring up the toll
Bill your soul.




We'll take you down