I’m standing at the turning lathe,
The work is nearly done.
A short look at the watch,
A small glint of hope.
But the machine is using the moment,
Picking up the thread,
Grasping at my shirt,
Threatening to devour me!
Torture and carnage and soon I’ll be dead,
Morbid knocking in my head.
Torture and carnage, when will it stop?
Morbid knocking makes me a clot.
The workpiece is ending through my head,
Two thousand times in one minute.
My eyes swell and burst.
The result is enormous deformation.
Gears become the register
Of the seconds of my fading life.
The machine is splashing my warm blood
And painting macabre designs on the wall.
Fragments of bones are smelling up the air
And liquid flesh is dripping from the table constantly.
Morbid knocking! Morbid knocking!
Morbid knocking! Morbid – knocking!
The machine is raging like mad,
Playing with the last spark of my energy.
I’m still standing at the turning lathe,
But the work is done now.
The tool of horror gets slower and slower
And as it’s standing still,
My hacked body is sinking to the floor
And I’m bathing in myself,
And I’m bathing in myself!