There's blood on my hand
That same "**** spot"
It won't go away
I will get caught

There's blood on my face
Shame to wash it away
But I mustn't lose my composure
The spot, though lovely, cannot stay

There's blood on my chest
I can't seem to find how to remove it
I do so like it, just where it is
But there'd be many of those who'd pitch a fit

There's blood upon my feet
I must find the way to make them clean
Not at all because I mind
Because blood ought not be something casually seen

The blood, it's stretched itself to be everywhere
With that savory, metallic scent
Sweet and salty, this crimson, tacky blood
And I'm the keeper of the secret; what this has all meant

O these slashes of blood, the drying puddles, brimmed with love
The power that is the grip of life
Shed now in a glorious display of our purest contempt
Flesh weeping after the stabbing, mangling by a bladed knife

The blood has painted me
Always shall it be there
No amount of scrubbing could wash these marks away
Scent eternal, lingering in the air

This bloods borne a stain on my soul
Death a companion who'll never be far
I'll hold hands and walk with it
To hell's blackest star