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