underground death
Creative Commons license
Commercial uses of this track are NOT allowed
Adaptations of this track are NOT allowed to be shared
You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the artist
Lyrics
A grenade on the chest strap is the final piece
The last element of the uniform
The sun sets and it's time to hunt
It looks to be another bad night for the walking dead
He's an expert at this, armed to the teeth
The others may flee but he takes pride in his hunt
His vendetta
Three years ago they dragged his wife to the grave
Shambling heaps of flesh with no right to life
Now he stalks them eternally, night after night
They never grow wise to his tactics
Sometimes with a shotgun he aims for the head
A fetid stench pours out when the skull explodes
And he wipes brains from his face
When shells are running low his MP-5 will do the trick
He riddles them with lead until their bodies barely function
Then hacks at the neck with a freshly sharpened blade
Blood gushes from the wounds and pools at his feet
But he doesn't see it anymore
In whichever way he can he will kill them
And he always burns the bodies
The stench of burning skin is now attached to him
Born of heaping bonfires in the woods, or in the streets
He hunts in barnyards and cities, apartments and fields
Wandering and killing the haggard bags of pus
Sometimes he finds a car, sometimes he walks
The Earth went to hell years ago and no one stops him
Scavenging for food and weapons is all that matters
And his count, his rising count
Thousands of charred bodies are on his head