You must login to vote
I'll be dancing on your grave,
As blackened angels with tattered wings sound the trumpets dug up from the depths of hell.
I'll parade around, pounding on the diseased earth which covers your tomb, mocking you with every step.
Your life, a wasted existence. Your death causes none to mourn.
The angels call out horrid notes played on trumpets screaming apathy; and still no tears are shed with sympathy.
Enjoy your afterlife, spent fleeing from haunting demons, echoes of your mortal mistakes.
Your tombstone will crack and crumble, mimicking your soul.
And still I dance upon your grave.
-Punx make better lovers-