A man cast aside,
His body made cold,
And like the swelling of the tide,
Comes the rotting of his flesh.
With a squelching, squelching, squelching,,
As it slides off of his bones,
Like a dead king from his throne,
Heralding the rotting, rotting, rotting,
Of his corpse, corpse, corpse.

In the confines of his gut,
The gasses squeak and splut,
As the decomposition goes awry.
As his body swells and speaks,
With a low, low moan,
And a low, low groan,
A wet splattering pop can be heard.
As his flesh gives way,
In the midst of his decay,
Bits of rotting corpse,
Are made to soar.