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No string shall rise above the rite

The altar hums in absence of light

The sacred pulse begins to swell

A host of bass where silence fell

Feed on the drone - it is the flesh

Drink from the hum - it keeps us fresh

Sound becomes blood, low and divine

Vibrations crush the holy spine

No strings remain, no elevation

Only bass transubstantiation

Flesh becomes tone, and tone becomes need

The low-end wine is what we bleed

This unholy mass feeds the damned

No solo shines, no strumming hand

Feed on the drone - it is the flesh

Drink from the hum - it keeps us fresh

Sound becomes blood, low and divine

Vibrations crush the holy spine

No strings remain, no elevation

Only bass transubstantiation

Feed on the drone - it is the flesh

Drink from the hum - it keeps us fresh

Sound becomes blood, low and divine

Vibrations crush the holy spine

No strings remain, no elevation

Only bass transubstantiation