Текст песни Postmortem Procedures (Exhumed) с переводом

In the dissection of flesh and the sawing of bone, I’ve coaxed confessions

From the lips of the dead, Postmortem scrutiny that has clinically shone, The

Horrifying facts that would have never been said… Unbosoming their secrets

In the sickening results of their demise, Stomaching these wretched human

Riddles, I carve, hack and slice, Illuminating the dusty skeletons that lurk

In closets, bones and entrails, Enduring the ghastly visage of violent death

In my forensic travails… Whether in pieces or completely decomposed, I asses

With clinical indifference, The remnants of a life which grisly circumstance

Has brought to this office, Ensuring that truth shall endure after the flesh

Has crumbled and rotted away, Elucidating atrocities and carnage, the

Thankless job I perform day after day… Persistent incisions that cut to the

Quick are my stock in trade, To scrutinize what remains of a life

Painstaking effort will have to be made, At times both evidence and flesh are

Profoundly encrypted and shred, It can be murder to pry answers from the

Mouths of the dead… A gutted torso can pose a bevy of answerless questions

To deliberate, Probing with a scalpel, I expose the morbid cavity that I now

Must eviscerate, Unlocking death’s mysteries with my forceps, tweezers and

Saw, Wringing revelations from a fibula, fossa or jaw… Recording

Confessions that are uttered without making a sound, From informants long dead

That I’ve culled from the ground, Beneath the pallid veil of cold flesh or

Enshrouded in the shredded remains of a face, Exhuming the truth is my

Occupation, no matter how decrepit its resting place… Within the bowels of a

Horribly mutilated corpse or a splattered brain, Picking apart flesh and

Deceit 'til only the cold facts remain, Dead men will tell tales if you know

How to listen and learn, Even when they’ve been stabbed, beaten, shot, hacked

Up and burned… This morbid quest for knowledge is not without its rewards

Much can be extrapolated from a decrepit infants gourd, My bureau’s a slab, my

Text is a corpse, and I’ve studied with sincere, ardent fervor, And found that

Often man’s inhumanity to man is all to well deserved…

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