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Description
All In a Mourning's Work

I call it as I see it
A spade is a spade
You're all so shaded
Faces plastered and jaded

The cold metal doors spring open
A stretcher rolls in
And a few more
Followed by the shutting door

A broken biological machine
Lay on the table
Its gears strained
Fuels drained

I inspect its specs
Prod the lifeless mass
Every hair, every bone, every scar
This is all that we are

You see, we are objects
Holding an illusion of consciousness
It's self-sufficient arrogance
This life is your one chance

Life becomes a lot more real
When you look at the dead
Life is finite and limited
Don't take it for granted

Sometimes it's a heart attack
Other times it's murder
Killing someone for their wealth
Or nature's cap on lifelong health

I investigate his mouth
His teeth click effortlessly
When I shut his jaw
The morgue silences with awe

The skin gets this blue hue
As the body's true colors show through
You realize that life's glow
Is all a big show

The curtain drops
Lights go out
We all face Judgment Day
"That's when it all ends," they say

You really meet a man
The day he dies
His entire life history
Recorded on his anatomy

Scalpels and sutures
Bone-saws and syringes
Open up the man's hide
See we're all the same inside

No matter who he was
No matter what he did
He is this machine
Of chemical and protein

When a man dies
There's this gloss over his eyes
His mind lost all ties
In the face of his demise

When you weigh a man's heart
It's just a bag of flesh
A big heart is only a liability
It was this man's disability

Moonshine deaths are always interesting
The guy's liver is unrecognizable
He consumed the volume of his pain
In brutal and alcoholic disdain

Occasionally a cracked skull comes in
A lady was minding her own business
And ends it all
With a simple fall

Children are the tragedy
Their little hands and feet
You only want to see them breathe
Their careless deaths make you seethe

You have to wash yourself
Of that hallow sorrow
And embrace the ugly truth
The limited nature of your own youth

I've got more bodies than bags
More graves than hospital beds
We collect bodies and obsess about the dead
A societal fascination left unsaid

It's all in a mourning's work
I wash my hands free of the old blood
I go home and go to bed
And in my rest I mimic the dead

Description
All In a Mourning's Work

I call it as I see it
A spade is a spade
You're all so shaded
Faces plastered and jaded

The cold metal doors spring open
A stretcher rolls in
And a few more
Followed by the shutting door

A broken biological machine
Lay on the table
Its gears strained
Fuels drained

I inspect its specs
Prod the lifeless mass
Every hair, every bone, every scar
This is all that we are

You see, we are objects
Holding an illusion of consciousness
It's self-sufficient arrogance
This life is your one chance

Life becomes a lot more real
When you look at the dead
Life is finite and limited
Don't take it for granted

Sometimes it's a heart attack
Other times it's murder
Killing someone for their wealth
Or nature's cap on lifelong health

I investigate his mouth
His teeth click effortlessly
When I shut his jaw
The morgue silences with awe

The skin gets this blue hue
As the body's true colors show through
You realize that life's glow
Is all a big show

The curtain drops
Lights go out
We all face Judgment Day
"That's when it all ends," they say

You really meet a man
The day he dies
His entire life history
Recorded on his anatomy

Scalpels and sutures
Bone-saws and syringes
Open up the man's hide
See we're all the same inside

No matter who he was
No matter what he did
He is this machine
Of chemical and protein

When a man dies
There's this gloss over his eyes
His mind lost all ties
In the face of his demise

When you weigh a man's heart
It's just a bag of flesh
A big heart is only a liability
It was this man's disability

Moonshine deaths are always interesting
The guy's liver is unrecognizable
He consumed the volume of his pain
In brutal and alcoholic disdain

Occasionally a cracked skull comes in
A lady was minding her own business
And ends it all
With a simple fall

Children are the tragedy
Their little hands and feet
You only want to see them breathe
Their careless deaths make you seethe

You have to wash yourself
Of that hallow sorrow
And embrace the ugly truth
The limited nature of your own youth

I've got more bodies than bags
More graves than hospital beds
We collect bodies and obsess about the dead
A societal fascination left unsaid

It's all in a mourning's work
I wash my hands free of the old blood
I go home and go to bed
And in my rest I mimic the dead