Symposium of Sickness Lyrics
| Song | Symposium of Sickness |
| Artist | Carcass |
| Album | Necroticism - Descanting the Insalubrious |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : Owen, Walker | |
| That's why | |
| I find it so amusing | |
| That the Latter-day | |
| Saints of our business | |
| One, attribute to me motives that just weren't there | |
| And two accuse me of corrupting morality | |
| Which I wish | |
| I had the power to do, prepare to die | |
| An encloaking, dark epoch | |
| In which all life is now appraised | |
| Another valueless commodity | |
| On which the paracious may feebly graze | |
| Indebted homage to their mammon | |
| Whilst the mort is the music of the meek | |
| Transcendence from a beatifully brutal reality | |
| Is what I seek | |
| Noxious, sully dolour | |
| Is not the sentiment upon which we feed | |
| But precocious consciousness | |
| Draws out a morbid nous to bleed | |
| Chiselling out seething words | |
| Which cut deep down to the bone | |
| Always legible | |
| So be it on our own headstone | |
| Rising to out own nadir | |
| Reality we try to extirpate | |
| Trying to raise a twisted smile | |
| Similar to that silver plate | |
| On a coffin which is joined | |
| Hammering in each final nail | |
| Last kill and testament | |
| Left now intestate | |
| Noxious, sully dolour | |
| Is not the thesis which is bled | |
| A precarious train of thought | |
| In which mental cattle-trucks are led | |
| Carving out skilful words | |
| Which shear brittle bones | |
| Always spelt out well | |
| We just can't leave the dead alone | |
| Monographic text | |
| A terminal doctrine of diseased minds perplexed | |
| Enunciated epigrams | |
| Eschatological, rotten requiems | |
| Always our own worst cynics | |
| Exorcisers of scorching scorn | |
| Digging our own graves | |
| But never stand over and mourn | |
| The roulade now pandemonium | |
| Displaced in the muggy sods | |
| Espoused with the macabre | |
| The dead we filch and rob | |
| Munificant bale | |
| From the deviants staid | |
| Execrations, taunting spiritual release | |
| Exoneration, upon the perishable we feast | |
| Excogitation, picking at the bones of convention | |
| Exculpitation, foul verbal conflagration | |
| Epigraphic text, a literary vex | |
| The macabre perplexed, with corporeality meshed | |
| Euthenic text | |
| An unpleasant journey to a world perplexed | |
| Corporeal epigraphs | |
| Eschatological unpleasantness | |
| Always forever cryptic | |
| Exercisers of twisted grief | |
| Helping you to dig up the interred | |
| Whilst fresh still are the wreaths | |
| The harmony now pandemonium | |
| Heard out in the muddy dirt | |
| Espoused with the bizzare | |
| We play on our own turf | |
| Epithetic text | |
| A macabre rality perplexed | |
| Execrations, literary tales of atrocities fairy | |
| Exoneration, harsh, cold bloody marys | |
| Excogitation, a narcissistic eutechnique | |
| Exculpitation, perverse artworks, so unique | |
| Monographic text, a literary vex | |
| The macabre perplexed with reality meshed |
| zuo ci : Owen, Walker | |
| That' s why | |
| I find it so amusing | |
| That the Latterday | |
| Saints of our business | |
| One, attribute to me motives that just weren' t there | |
| And two accuse me of corrupting morality | |
| Which I wish | |
| I had the power to do, prepare to die | |
| An encloaking, dark epoch | |
| In which all life is now appraised | |
| Another valueless commodity | |
| On which the paracious may feebly graze | |
| Indebted homage to their mammon | |
| Whilst the mort is the music of the meek | |
| Transcendence from a beatifully brutal reality | |
| Is what I seek | |
| Noxious, sully dolour | |
| Is not the sentiment upon which we feed | |
| But precocious consciousness | |
| Draws out a morbid nous to bleed | |
| Chiselling out seething words | |
| Which cut deep down to the bone | |
| Always legible | |
| So be it on our own headstone | |
| Rising to out own nadir | |
| Reality we try to extirpate | |
| Trying to raise a twisted smile | |
| Similar to that silver plate | |
| On a coffin which is joined | |
| Hammering in each final nail | |
| Last kill and testament | |
| Left now intestate | |
| Noxious, sully dolour | |
| Is not the thesis which is bled | |
| A precarious train of thought | |
| In which mental cattletrucks are led | |
| Carving out skilful words | |
| Which shear brittle bones | |
| Always spelt out well | |
| We just can' t leave the dead alone | |
| Monographic text | |
| A terminal doctrine of diseased minds perplexed | |
| Enunciated epigrams | |
| Eschatological, rotten requiems | |
| Always our own worst cynics | |
| Exorcisers of scorching scorn | |
| Digging our own graves | |
| But never stand over and mourn | |
| The roulade now pandemonium | |
| Displaced in the muggy sods | |
| Espoused with the macabre | |
| The dead we filch and rob | |
| Munificant bale | |
| From the deviants staid | |
| Execrations, taunting spiritual release | |
| Exoneration, upon the perishable we feast | |
| Excogitation, picking at the bones of convention | |
| Exculpitation, foul verbal conflagration | |
| Epigraphic text, a literary vex | |
| The macabre perplexed, with corporeality meshed | |
| Euthenic text | |
| An unpleasant journey to a world perplexed | |
| Corporeal epigraphs | |
| Eschatological unpleasantness | |
| Always forever cryptic | |
| Exercisers of twisted grief | |
| Helping you to dig up the interred | |
| Whilst fresh still are the wreaths | |
| The harmony now pandemonium | |
| Heard out in the muddy dirt | |
| Espoused with the bizzare | |
| We play on our own turf | |
| Epithetic text | |
| A macabre rality perplexed | |
| Execrations, literary tales of atrocities fairy | |
| Exoneration, harsh, cold bloody marys | |
| Excogitation, a narcissistic eutechnique | |
| Exculpitation, perverse artworks, so unique | |
| Monographic text, a literary vex | |
| The macabre perplexed with reality meshed |
| zuò cí : Owen, Walker | |
| That' s why | |
| I find it so amusing | |
| That the Latterday | |
| Saints of our business | |
| One, attribute to me motives that just weren' t there | |
| And two accuse me of corrupting morality | |
| Which I wish | |
| I had the power to do, prepare to die | |
| An encloaking, dark epoch | |
| In which all life is now appraised | |
| Another valueless commodity | |
| On which the paracious may feebly graze | |
| Indebted homage to their mammon | |
| Whilst the mort is the music of the meek | |
| Transcendence from a beatifully brutal reality | |
| Is what I seek | |
| Noxious, sully dolour | |
| Is not the sentiment upon which we feed | |
| But precocious consciousness | |
| Draws out a morbid nous to bleed | |
| Chiselling out seething words | |
| Which cut deep down to the bone | |
| Always legible | |
| So be it on our own headstone | |
| Rising to out own nadir | |
| Reality we try to extirpate | |
| Trying to raise a twisted smile | |
| Similar to that silver plate | |
| On a coffin which is joined | |
| Hammering in each final nail | |
| Last kill and testament | |
| Left now intestate | |
| Noxious, sully dolour | |
| Is not the thesis which is bled | |
| A precarious train of thought | |
| In which mental cattletrucks are led | |
| Carving out skilful words | |
| Which shear brittle bones | |
| Always spelt out well | |
| We just can' t leave the dead alone | |
| Monographic text | |
| A terminal doctrine of diseased minds perplexed | |
| Enunciated epigrams | |
| Eschatological, rotten requiems | |
| Always our own worst cynics | |
| Exorcisers of scorching scorn | |
| Digging our own graves | |
| But never stand over and mourn | |
| The roulade now pandemonium | |
| Displaced in the muggy sods | |
| Espoused with the macabre | |
| The dead we filch and rob | |
| Munificant bale | |
| From the deviants staid | |
| Execrations, taunting spiritual release | |
| Exoneration, upon the perishable we feast | |
| Excogitation, picking at the bones of convention | |
| Exculpitation, foul verbal conflagration | |
| Epigraphic text, a literary vex | |
| The macabre perplexed, with corporeality meshed | |
| Euthenic text | |
| An unpleasant journey to a world perplexed | |
| Corporeal epigraphs | |
| Eschatological unpleasantness | |
| Always forever cryptic | |
| Exercisers of twisted grief | |
| Helping you to dig up the interred | |
| Whilst fresh still are the wreaths | |
| The harmony now pandemonium | |
| Heard out in the muddy dirt | |
| Espoused with the bizzare | |
| We play on our own turf | |
| Epithetic text | |
| A macabre rality perplexed | |
| Execrations, literary tales of atrocities fairy | |
| Exoneration, harsh, cold bloody marys | |
| Excogitation, a narcissistic eutechnique | |
| Exculpitation, perverse artworks, so unique | |
| Monographic text, a literary vex | |
| The macabre perplexed with reality meshed |
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