A Dawn Without - Appetite Lyrics

Dark and sticky, my mind torments
A membrane upon my teeth remains of your lament
Father, mother - your tastefulness
Producing such a tasty morsel
Residing at my table head

Peas and porridge are best served hot
And revenge presented cold
This irony that does serve me
A poetic end to slander told
Peas and porridge, you're in my pot
Just nine years old
It's dreadfully sad your epitaph
Won't read like contents of this note

Savory breeding and procreative tastefulness
Your pedigree becomes a tasty mess
Bothered, smothered - my lexicon you spurn
So duly I shall condescend your worth to me in simplest terms:
Memories of your bereaved
I admit it seems obscene
The acorn of your family tree is passing through me in my feces

My recipe culled from reams of grief
Archived behind your disbelief

Lying in wait - my stricken hand
Shall caress temptation of which I'm surely damned
The epitaph should read on her slate
"This gourmand's delight - how well she made a steak"
Lying in state - these words you may rent
To be sure you orate correctly, enclosed is my contempt