[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...