Энциклопедия

1. Goreverture

At Saint Julian's Medical University
Four ambitious students are taking experiments into the nature of death a bit too seriously
(Death after life)
Driven by an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, they will live by the scalpel and cut down those who get in their way.
(Death after life)
Experiments in murder, their aim is to answer the questio - Is there a cure for death after life?
(Death after life)
Death after life...if you're lucky enough to die, pray that you stay dead.


2. Mondo Medicale

Grinding forth from the halls of education
Replete with the stench of dessication
Four pre-meds suffer condemnation
Tomes were perused, tombs were abused
All medico-legal limitations refused
With inhuman dexterity and intelligence, infused

Master thespians in the operating theatre
Likewise endowed in a gorenography feature
Deranged we may be after a blood bath
But all that rots can't be studied intact

Sifting through reams of anatomical charts
Bisecting livers and dissecting hearts
Arcane knowledge for doctoral upstarts
Rooting through a chum ridden morass
Cells scrutinized on iodized glass
We've mapped the structure of a carcass

Up to our elbows in grue and claret
We proffer quite a sanguine display
As we rule this mondo medicale
With scalpels and blades prepared on the tray
Integument cut and dermis to flay
You will rue this mondo medicale

Bypassing moral balances and checks
Summistes on high, rewriting texts
Our æsculapian methods leave them all vexed
Surgical aspirations, all dignified
Post-modern Versali, repersonified
But for our successes, we're villified

A trocar employed for psycho-surgery
In this bedlam of hospitality
Though flesh and blood are dead inside
The gross anatomy can still be applied
To raise the stakes of medicine's breadth
These choice cuts ours, until death
Our work is to die for so don't be a knave
Choke on it and go back to the grave


3. Gutless

Addressing inequities in inadequate techniques
Surgical procedures, involved and unique
My knife is a brush for a sanguine pallette
Create a masterpiece with some bone and a mallet

Hysterectomies for those who are insane
Severing meninges to balance the brain
Trephan the skull for a nervous disorder
Tapping the vein to expunge fever
Excoriate bubos with brand and cleaver
Our professors believe we're out of order

Suffering spinalectomies
Their bellies, jaundiced
Fusty minds, cowardly
You're gutless
Feint of heart and lothly
With enfeebled stomachs
Lily-livered and rafty
You're gutless

Without the risk, there's no reward
We must experiment on our wards
To elevate our science
We will operate in defiance

Committed to impuning progress
Judicial officials are made to egress
Our critics are given the axe
The needs of many outweigh the few
Profficide required for us to continue
The research of cold, dead facts

Restraining philistines
Facing final justice
Exscinding to the spine
You're gutless
Liberating omentum
Of an aristarchus
Usefulness just begun
You're gutless

Without the risk, there's no reward
We must experiment on our wards
To elevate our science
We will operate in defiance

Moral objectors will lose their tongues
And guts and bones and brains and teeth and lungs
Till they're gutless


4. Theatre Of Operations

If we make the incision here, we can minimize tissue damage...
He's waking up.
[ Gurgling noise ]
Ah, professor, welcome back to the land of the living...at least...temporarily.
What's that? Cat got your tongue? Oh, that's right. We do. Right here in this jar.
Well you were saying such awful things about us...
Hurry this up, here's a bonesaw.
Alright. We've got to take some other things from you now, professor.
Don't worry. It'll only hurt...until you die.


5. Preservation Of Death

Their censure forced the decision
Their murder forced by incision

With furtive defiance I ended their lives
My allegiance to the scalpel has reshaped mine

Stuck with a codgerie of bodies
My aims have something new to embody

Flasks brimming with nutritive concoctions
To stave off decay and exsiccation

In vials suffused with anti-decomposotes
Concealed organelles, their discovery remote

Preservation of...
A post-mortem view to the nature of
Death
Preservation of...
A looking glass through to the traces of
Death

With our crimes concealed, we've time to reveal
Anatomical dogmas, so far not appealed

In perfect suspension, this gralloch begs the question
Past this mortal coil, can we affect reclamation

Preservation of...
Channels replete through which we aim to cheat death
Preservation of...
To our last breath, pursuing life after death

Information I'll procure from subjects matured
In a gripe's egg of our preserving tinctures


6. Wrought In Hell

An eldritch study to beguile our throng
The irons that now bind us will be proven none to strong
Our asomatic nostrum, we'll work hammer and tongs

My medical bag brims with surgical steel
If they're the tools for the job, my work will reveal

This apparati insufficient, I'll concede
For death to be undone, custom tools we'll need

Smelted steel prepared to be forged
Instruments unimagined before - wrought in hell
Bio-morphic blades cleave whet stones
Slicing effortlessly through bones
Spreaders and clamps and brackets to fasten
For this craft we've found a passion - wrought in hell
To antique equipment we'll not be resigned
Utilizing pieces of our own design

Bunsen burners conflagrate erlenmeyer flasks
Burets are topped with bactericides distilled in casks

Formaldahyde, ether, lividinous tinctures

Medicinal vegetation we've culled
A pestle grinds these pharmaceuticals - wrought in hell
Toxic particulates mixed with saline
The reagent turns a bright shade of green
Through a rebreather, the stench is dulled
As bellows are topped with chemicals - wrought in hell
With tubing and pipe set into place
This spectre of death we'll attempt to erase

Tangled leads are wound around kaleidoscopic brains
Wherein probes are intromitted in constipated veins
Transformer required to break mortal constrains

Turbines spin generating kinetic flow
Conductive kneck bolts will direct the current to go

AC/DC, electrical, jump-start the physiological

My medical bag brims with that we have decreed
The tools of reanimation, now our work can proceed

New innovations to revivify all things rotten
Hearts will be made to pulse again with tools wrought in...
Hell


7. Resurrectionists

A hammer to drive the chisel in
A chisel to alter bone and skin
An algid stiff to now provide
A link to where the soul resides

That still hearts should pulse with ichor
Is an ethical dilemma to be sure
That a body can be made to function
Is an enigma to decipher without compunction
That the dead may in mere slumber lie
Is a query that begs us to coax a reply
That rotting lungs shall heave with breath
Is truly a matter of life and death

The ressurectionists
The ressurectionists... no more death after life

Augers employed to crack and peel
Gilding steel teeth with paste of bone meal
Their skulls disassembled and scored
With sanguine expectations, meticulously gored

To reconnect nerve filled clusters
Our encaphalic skill, we muster
To reinstate arterial paths
Our hands engage in a blood bath
To reset joint and bone
Our mending powers are hewn
To restart cardial beating
Our defibrullator is heating

The ressurectionists
The ressurectionists... no more death after life

Intra-venously dripping a potion
To rekindle locomotion

Old hat at plundering lifeless shells
But I shall never get used to the smell

Sutures of catgut carefully stitched
Securing intestines in torsal pitch
Along the sciatic, nerves are defrayed
In our conclave, bodies remade

This brain in a solution submerged
From a cranium we've purged
This jellied ganglia to reconnect
From the medulla to the neck
This artery and vein shall rehydrate
From pulmonary functions we'll resuscitate
This human tabula rasa we've sewn
From it, coaxed, secrets to life unknown

The ressurectionists
The ressurectionists... no more death after life


8. The Dead Shall Dead Remain

Our hypothesis carried out on mortal remains
Real-life application tests our conjectures
It seems despite our scientific progress
All we've proven is our abject failures

A foetid stench fills the air
And with a pungent voice declares
Though we prod a cadaver with care
There is no life in there
Altruistic notions aside
And the experiments we've tried
The veracity cannot be denied
There is no cure for those who've died

Rot, waste, spoil, bilge

The cynics did maintain
The dead shall dead remain
Our theory proved insane
The dead shall dead remain

A pallid visage stares in disgust
Through sockets laden with crust
At the bungle it would see in us
If it were not destined to be dust
Turgid corpses received first aid
In our macabre palisade
Volts unleashed in a fussilade
But no twitch from this inert promenade

A canon of soulless masses
Where no animation trespasses
These patchwork men that lie about in heaps
They reaped what we'd sewn, and showed what we reaped

This quartet can no longer sustain
Beleaguered by a fatal admission
Our covent's work in this abbatoir
Blaspheme the sanctity of a physician

Rot, waste, spoil, bilge

The cynics did maintain
The dead shall dead remain
Our theory proved insane
The dead shall dead remain


9. Critical Condition

I'm still registering a flatline on the EKG - no pulse, no BP.
Is this defibrulator even plugged in?
Affirmative, the monitor shows full power.
Clear!
Increase the drip.
Forget the drip, give me 100 CC's directly into the jugular.
Christ! The infectant's spilling out of his ass.
Abdominal adema -- lower the valve pressure.
Still flatlining, negative brain function.
Ahhh! Remove the ventral sucures and spread the ribs - I'm going directly for the heart.
It's not working.
500 CC's of atrepine now in the right ventricle.
But that's enough to kill him!
Which really isn't a problem, considering he's still dead.


10. Medical Waste

We have stared over the precipice of mortality
And death's gaping maw could not be sated
Our deviant feats could not attain immortality
In shame, we vow our flesh to be uncreated

Putrescence and filth, within our lab and within ourselves
The mocking corpses bloat and distend
This reeking rubbage will dispell
When our lives, by our own hands, we'll dutifully end

In vaporous rooms, veins swell to burst
Anasthesia is applied
Scalpels lick our forearms and wrists
Doctor assisted suicide

Caught in the act, we are red-handed
From the antibrachium, flesh is disbanded
Anti-coagulants of our invention
Will ensure no bloodflow retention

Goblets are filled with the reagent
Our work's micturation
A toast is raised to time spent
On failed experimentation

Noxious salves enkindling throats
Congealing on tongues in coats
With instruments we have fathered
We'll proceed to disembowel eachother

Fraternal dissection

Detritus of a cold cook... medical waste
Keech of those that were burked... medical waste
Sweetmeats hung from rusted hooks ... medical waste
Maladroit surgical jerks... we're medical wastes

Lacerated midsections... medical waste
Sucking wounds fillling lungs... medical waste
Our avulsed intestines... medical waste
Errorist physicians... we're medical wastes

Our characters are mortally wounded
Teetotaciously rent corporeal shells
And now our blood and grue is self-exuded
For from Icarian heights we fell


11. Dead Alive

Shrouded by this mortal veil, something has gone wrong
Engaging conscious thought, though we are dead gone
A new beginning to the physiological
But as we decompose, the pain is unbearable

Cellular dissolution, structures in decay
Our systems in disarray
Glistening lividity on exfodiating skin
Living decomposition

From beyond the pale, we survive
The pain of being dead alive

Eyeballs exssicate
As moisture dissipates
The epidermis shrinks
As a countenance sinks
No marrow left to slake
Dried bones as they break
Muscles liquify
As the skelature is nullified

The abdomen distends
With noxious gasses that offend

Organs dessicate
A foul odor we execrate

Four disparate minds converge on one theorem
Merits were to be had for our death-defying serum
Decomposing and gutted, our existence it prolonged
Though we have died, still we live on

Post-mortem torturing, immortal suffering
Pain receptors functioning
I am Chris Zewe
Prone amongst detritus without ambulation
No tomb, no rest, no supplication

We suffer while our nervous systems thrive
The pain of being dead alive

We never wanted to revive
The pain of being dead alive


12. Coda Morte

[Instrumental]