His name it was Dead
and soon he would be-
no one knew why-
he was damaged you see.
People found him weird
though he hardly spoke-
but he sang like the devil-
and that was no joke.
One night alone-
under moon that was freezing-
he picked up a knife
and found this quite pleasing-
slicing his wrists-
blood drenching his clothes-
still he was alive-
so his frustration grows.
Then picking up a gun
with his soul aiming South-
this man they called Dead
put the barrel in his mouth-
and brains then were splattered
when Euronymous came home.
It looked like a casserole
pouring out of his dome.
Pictures were taken
and necklaces were made-
from pieces of his brain-
giving black metal shade.
Those pieces were lost
yet a legacy lives on-
black hearts forever
not just rising at dawn-
and music? There's little-
supplying carnage and joy
from the voice of this Dead
who had to destroy.
Not fit for this world
or so it was said-
and still he lives on-
even though he is dead.
No comments:
Post a Comment