Текст песни Last Rites of the Ill Content

Face down in the Cuyahoga, Just the way you planned I'm running out of breath, And you can't help but laugh Mr. big shot thinks he got the last laugh But will soon realize his fate Grab you by your greasy mane My pleasure comes from your pain With a 14 inch blade in your mouth You don't have much to say Watching you die slowly There's nothing that compares Your blood is on my hands For once I'm satisfied Your carcass... My trophy Your anguish... My glory