Sycamore Smith
Sickdom
The murderess undresses her late night victimHe's got a fine physique, that's why she picked himShe takes a swig of port then sitsUpon his rigor mortised bits till dawnShe's the sickest lass in all of Sickdom-----Sickdom is a realmWhere saintly souls are overwhelmed,Their grace erased and then replaced with bas depravityIts denizens are menacing, yet fill you full of calmBy shoving opiated balm up in your cavity...-----The murderess confesses to the handsome priestBut he doesn't hear a word, as he's deceasedShe tears his frock & socks off andPrepares to get her rocks off by smearing himIn the extremely unctuous gunk with which she's greased-----The murderess caresses he macheteAnd curls up on a deep magenta setteeThe scent of fetid gent is strong and headyAs she slips out of her pinkish patchwork teddy-----The murderess's tresses grow gray and thinAnd then the ravages of time do her inShe punts across the Styx to dwellBut cannot get her kicks so well in Hades,Where cavorting with the dead is not a sin, rickety-tin,How she longs to live in Sickdom once again...
From Letras Mania