| The pious pour their pity pure | |
| I can sell a little cure | |
| The burning flesh, the sweetest smell | |
| I kiss the angel burnt in hell | |
| I watch your fallen boring fate | |
| As you sweat and you masturbate | |
| I'm touching you but cannot feel | |
| But one small poke and you will squeal | |
| Constantly commits consume | |
| Creep on to your closing tomb | |
| No whiskey welcome at your door | |
| Not a light for your whore | |
| Not a word that | |
| I can hear | |
| The stench of shit tells me you're near | |
| Constantly commits consume | |
| Creep on to your closing tomb | |
| Your God is gaping | |
| Your God is waiting | |
| Your terror rises | |
| To no surprises | |
| Your God is gaping | |
| Your God is waiting | |
| Your terror rises | |
| To no surprises | |
| Mirror mirror on the wall | |
| Doberman's are in the hall | |
| Mirror mirror on the wall | |
| Take off that blindfold, face them all | |
| Mirror mirror on the wall | |
| Dope bonanza in the mall | |
| Mirror mirror on the wall | |
| Hold on tight, | |
| I'll fuck you all | |
| Constantly commits consume | |
| Creep on to your closing tomb | |
| Your God is gaping | |
| Your God is waiting | |
| Your terror rises | |
| To no surprises | |
| Your God is gaping | |
| Your God is waiting | |
| Your terror rises | |
| To no surprises | |
| Your God is gaping | |
| Your God is waiting | |
| Your terror rises | |
| To no surprises | |
| Your God is gaping | |
| Your God is waiting | |
| Your terror rises | |
| To no surprises |
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