The Noose Tightens
Pass me the bonesaw there's no time to waste Traitors and critics corrupt the state Sedition Wolves surround the throne Perdition For those who won't atone Defenestrated, strangled or drowned An acute overdose of hollow point rounds Polonium Coursing through your veins You can run but there's nowhere you can ever fucking hide Global assassin Fourth reich fashion Spreading the disease Bonesaw diplomacy Global assassin Fourth reich fashion Spreading the disease Bonesaw diplomacy Suicide Two to your head from the back Found inside A bound and padlocked sack Traitors and critics corrupt the state Pass me the bonesaw there's no time to waste
Submitted by Pestilence — Jul 21, 2026
Every breath that you take is one less/that remains Till the noose takes your last Every day is a chance you will not get back Every sound that you hear is a door slamming shut And the weight/that you feel Is the rough and unmerciful touch Of the hangman's glove We fall slow Not for us the sudden plunge and the quick stop, But the dull panic of a crushed windpipe We stand in line with our death-hoods on Each in turn is marched off to his fate Throats too choked to voice our rage Backs broken by the weight Time, time is a noose From which we hang ourselves Feel its fibers round your neck Coarse unyielding in its grasp When the noose tightens Who will be there to stand Witness to your end Who, who will cut you down?
Submitted by Pestilence — Jul 21, 2026
A rock is an object until it becomes law The code of shattered teeth and broken skulls With stones pulled from their own homes they gather Relieved to escape the cull Justice must be done Cast the first stone Silence the untruth Cast the first stone So many hands make light work Absolved by ritual and washed in a stream The condemned a scapegoat for communal purge And by this blood we are clean Sun-baked and river-washed The law sits heavy in your hand This stone, this murder, is anathema to you Hurl it from yourself with righteous violence Purge yourself of all that is loathsome
Submitted by Pestilence — Jul 21, 2026
The old gods are dead Their corpses hung from rotting trees Our eyes now turned toward vacant thrones Science never sleeps The promise of a man made god What other altar could we kneel before? Crawl inside yourselves The fear of death compels You live your life for someone else You speak of laws and debt I say the only crimes Are the ones that you regret Gods are born in blood The sweat and tears of lesser men Thus speak the prophets of this new dark age You are hereby called To this feral ministry The only commandment to look death in the eye Drink deep and slake your aching thirst Soon every well will run dry
Submitted by Pestilence — Jul 21, 2026