Grotesqueries

All the world's indeed a corpse, and we are merely maggots
 Dead on arrival is our only course, and if the toe fits, tag it
 Sycophants, we're writhing blind, feeding off each others' regurgitation
 Disgorging whatever waste we find, breeding our degradation with each
 Exhalation
 Lambs to the slaughter
 Feast of fools upon the fodder
 No trompe l'oreil to behold
 Just a wretched drama to unfold
 Gnarled within this mortal coil
 Within which the voracious feebly toil
 Enamored of our own disease
 We revel in our own grotesqueries
 Dissecting ourselves to find nothing alive
 Just a mass of perversely animated pieces
 Nothing within worthwhile to revive
 We're mired knee-deep in our own fetid feces
 Gorging our gnawing jaws with our own pathological waste
 Like grubs wriggling in the rank feast of decay
 We grind our own bones into dust each futile step we take
 As we inch unseeing through day after day
 Consumer or consumed
 We all end up as chyme and grume
 Upon the fetid mass we choke
 Leaving us in no position to appreciate the sick joke
 Twisted through this mortal coil
 Now our unctuous desserts are brought to a boil
 Somewhere between the living and the deceased
 We gag on the feast of our grotesqueries
 Too consumed by consumption to see our own ends
 We're all dead and only getting deader
 Digging our own graves into which we gladly descend
 In this cold coil we're shackled and fettered
 As we ingest each others' waste, in a frenzied feeding rush
 Leaving everything sick and dead in our wake
 Devouring each other in ravening, unheeding crush
 As we gorge ourselves on all the tripe and offal we can intake
 Crass menagerie
 Eschatological estuary
 We create each others' atrocities
 In this grotesquery
 Asphyxiated by this mortal coil
 Reaping rancid fruits long since despoiled
 Until our depraved lives at last surcease
 We'll hunger for more grotesqueries