Postmortem Procedures Lyrics
| Song | Postmortem Procedures |
| Artist | Exhumed |
| Album | Gore Metal |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : Harvey | |
| (musick & lyrixxx - Matt Harvey, 1997) | |
| In the dissection of flesh and the sawing of bone, I've coaxed confessions | |
| from the lips of the dead, Postmortem scrutiny that has clinically shone, The | |
| horrifying facts that would have never been said... Unbosoming their secrets | |
| in the sickening results of their demise, Stomaching these wretched human | |
| riddles, I carve, hack and slice, Illuminating the dusty skeletons that lurk | |
| in closets, bones and entrails, Enduring the ghastly visage of violent death | |
| in my forensic travails... Whether in pieces or completely decomposed, I asses | |
| with clinical indifference, The remnants of a life which grisly circumstance | |
| has brought to this office, Ensuring that truth shall endure after the flesh | |
| has crumbled and rotted away, Elucidating atrocities and carnage, the | |
| thankless job I perform day after day... Persistent incisions that cut to the | |
| quick are my stock in trade, To scrutinize what remains of a life, | |
| painstaking effort will have to be made, At times both evidence and flesh are | |
| profoundly encrypted and shred, It can be murder to pry answers from the | |
| mouths of the dead... A gutted torso can pose a bevy of answerless questions | |
| to deliberate, Probing with a scalpel, I expose the morbid cavity that I now | |
| must eviscerate, Unlocking death's mysteries with my forceps, tweezers and | |
| saw, Wringing revelations from a fibula, fossa or jaw... Recording | |
| confessions that are uttered without making a sound, From informants long dead | |
| that I've culled from the ground, Beneath the pallid veil of cold flesh or | |
| enshrouded in the shredded remains of a face, Exhuming the truth is my | |
| occupation, no matter how decrepit its resting place... Within the bowels of a | |
| horribly mutilated corpse or a splattered brain, Picking apart flesh and | |
| deceit 'til only the cold facts remain, Dead men will tell tales if you know | |
| how to listen and learn, Even when they've been stabbed, beaten, shot, hacked | |
| up and burned... This morbid quest for knowledge is not without its rewards, | |
| Much can be extrapolated from a decrepit infants gourd, My bureau's a slab, my | |
| text is a corpse, and I've studied with sincere, ardent fervor, And found that | |
| often man's inhumanity to man is all to well deserved... |
| zuo qu : Harvey | |
| musick lyrixxx Matt Harvey, 1997 | |
| In the dissection of flesh and the sawing of bone, I' ve coaxed confessions | |
| from the lips of the dead, Postmortem scrutiny that has clinically shone, The | |
| horrifying facts that would have never been said... Unbosoming their secrets | |
| in the sickening results of their demise, Stomaching these wretched human | |
| riddles, I carve, hack and slice, Illuminating the dusty skeletons that lurk | |
| in closets, bones and entrails, Enduring the ghastly visage of violent death | |
| in my forensic travails... Whether in pieces or completely decomposed, I asses | |
| with clinical indifference, The remnants of a life which grisly circumstance | |
| has brought to this office, Ensuring that truth shall endure after the flesh | |
| has crumbled and rotted away, Elucidating atrocities and carnage, the | |
| thankless job I perform day after day... Persistent incisions that cut to the | |
| quick are my stock in trade, To scrutinize what remains of a life, | |
| painstaking effort will have to be made, At times both evidence and flesh are | |
| profoundly encrypted and shred, It can be murder to pry answers from the | |
| mouths of the dead... A gutted torso can pose a bevy of answerless questions | |
| to deliberate, Probing with a scalpel, I expose the morbid cavity that I now | |
| must eviscerate, Unlocking death' s mysteries with my forceps, tweezers and | |
| saw, Wringing revelations from a fibula, fossa or jaw... Recording | |
| confessions that are uttered without making a sound, From informants long dead | |
| that I' ve culled from the ground, Beneath the pallid veil of cold flesh or | |
| enshrouded in the shredded remains of a face, Exhuming the truth is my | |
| occupation, no matter how decrepit its resting place... Within the bowels of a | |
| horribly mutilated corpse or a splattered brain, Picking apart flesh and | |
| deceit ' til only the cold facts remain, Dead men will tell tales if you know | |
| how to listen and learn, Even when they' ve been stabbed, beaten, shot, hacked | |
| up and burned... This morbid quest for knowledge is not without its rewards, | |
| Much can be extrapolated from a decrepit infants gourd, My bureau' s a slab, my | |
| text is a corpse, and I' ve studied with sincere, ardent fervor, And found that | |
| often man' s inhumanity to man is all to well deserved... |
| zuò qǔ : Harvey | |
| musick lyrixxx Matt Harvey, 1997 | |
| In the dissection of flesh and the sawing of bone, I' ve coaxed confessions | |
| from the lips of the dead, Postmortem scrutiny that has clinically shone, The | |
| horrifying facts that would have never been said... Unbosoming their secrets | |
| in the sickening results of their demise, Stomaching these wretched human | |
| riddles, I carve, hack and slice, Illuminating the dusty skeletons that lurk | |
| in closets, bones and entrails, Enduring the ghastly visage of violent death | |
| in my forensic travails... Whether in pieces or completely decomposed, I asses | |
| with clinical indifference, The remnants of a life which grisly circumstance | |
| has brought to this office, Ensuring that truth shall endure after the flesh | |
| has crumbled and rotted away, Elucidating atrocities and carnage, the | |
| thankless job I perform day after day... Persistent incisions that cut to the | |
| quick are my stock in trade, To scrutinize what remains of a life, | |
| painstaking effort will have to be made, At times both evidence and flesh are | |
| profoundly encrypted and shred, It can be murder to pry answers from the | |
| mouths of the dead... A gutted torso can pose a bevy of answerless questions | |
| to deliberate, Probing with a scalpel, I expose the morbid cavity that I now | |
| must eviscerate, Unlocking death' s mysteries with my forceps, tweezers and | |
| saw, Wringing revelations from a fibula, fossa or jaw... Recording | |
| confessions that are uttered without making a sound, From informants long dead | |
| that I' ve culled from the ground, Beneath the pallid veil of cold flesh or | |
| enshrouded in the shredded remains of a face, Exhuming the truth is my | |
| occupation, no matter how decrepit its resting place... Within the bowels of a | |
| horribly mutilated corpse or a splattered brain, Picking apart flesh and | |
| deceit ' til only the cold facts remain, Dead men will tell tales if you know | |
| how to listen and learn, Even when they' ve been stabbed, beaten, shot, hacked | |
| up and burned... This morbid quest for knowledge is not without its rewards, | |
| Much can be extrapolated from a decrepit infants gourd, My bureau' s a slab, my | |
| text is a corpse, and I' ve studied with sincere, ardent fervor, And found that | |
| often man' s inhumanity to man is all to well deserved... |
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