Her room, a purification-plant, As long as no one enters, there won’t be an end. The sweet, dirty taste of a backdoor bread, Lyin' on her tongue, this can’t be wrong. She won’t waste a thought about her health, As she’s flyin’ high on the rusty smell, The warm, hard sausage right between her teeth, So smooth, so right to be repeated every night.
Changes did start some time ago, From beauty to scatcrow. Something in her head got terribly wrong, With the way her nutrition is done.
Recycling every piece from it.
Inhale the fumes, A smell of re-digested death, Beyond our imagination, This is more than defecation, And it’s the way it goes, From beauty to scatcrow. Co-Pro-Phagia
Sick!
Transformed into a chute, Ready for your anal-shoot, The flavour of an intestine, slushy, abnormal consistency.
The pressure on his face, In her eyes a glimpse of grace, Her dreams just became true, To consume what he consumed.
Inhale the fumes, A smell of re-digested death, Beyond our imagination, This is more than defecation, And it’s the way it goes, From beauty to scatcrow. Co-Pro-PhagiaTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
