Gorelord sits atop his putrid pile
But the stench of his product is wrapped in a taut smile drizzled with aftershave
A tie drips blood from his neck like an intestine
Because he deals in the blood of men

His organs have become synonymous with a dark market:
He writes on living cadavers with a black marker
As long as he's writing in black
And keeps the red off his hands

From his point of vantage bulging eyes look for any cure to his empire of disease
These, men surround like silent tentacles
And dragged to the vault for dissection
That's the wrath of politics