Postmortem Procedures Lyrics


Lead fills - Matt

 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 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

 Lead - Matt

 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