Senile Decay (Outtake) - Venom

Tearing at it’s boney face

It lifts it’s wretched hand

And tells a tale of history

In hell lifes contraband

Putrid smells pour from it’s lips

It’s eyes begin to bleed

Lost elixir of life

Baby maggots feed

It’s a creature loved by children

Oh if they could know the hell

Hair reclining life declining

Vomits at it’s own sweet smell

Laughing at it’s ripe melasma

Skin begins to rot and peel

Graveolent dry catamenia

Open wounds that never heal

Losing all it’s sense of senses

Dyspnoea closing in

Waiting for it’s day of judgement