Forbidden Crypts

We smelled the greasepaint in the air
They stumbled into town last night, completely unaware
Clad in shirts of mesh and with mascara on their eyes
We saw a keyboard player and we knew they had to die

They played a show at Ivan's Inn
From underneath the stage we heard the caterwauling din
They sang of forests, elves, and trolls
The urge to kill them on the spot we barely could control

After the show they all got drunk
Apparently to celebrate a set that really stunk
To the graveyard they predictably paid call
These lords of chaos whined about their tour bus being small

They spoke of Norway and the scene
The sound of laughing Ghouls reverberated through the trees
We should take some pictures! - the one in chain mail said
That's it -, Cremator growled - It's time these idiots were dead

They scattered like rats when they saw Ghoul attack
The drummer was the first to go, a hook in his back
Machetes were sinking into painted flesh
Carnage and gore soaking leather and mesh

The keyboardist begged but Fermentor just laughed
We hacked off his hands and then chopped him in half
The vocalist was strangled with his very guts
His female back-up expired from her cuts

Splattering brain pans as a matter of course
Violently murdering with no fucking remorse
Their bassist, to a boobytrap, paid a toll
His head having gained five or six extra holes

The blood from his mouth made a hot, steamy treat
We savoured the moment, then sawed off his feet
Both of the guitarists made a run for the gate
Digestor cut them off and sealed their fate

One of them cried while the other was killed
His tears did no good as his skull was still drilled
Slicing and dicing, our fanatic obsession
Of slaughtering poseurs, we've made a profession

In our forbidden
Forbidden crypts!