Phobophile

In the kitchen with a screaming triple amputee Its completion depends solely on my needs Said amputee's stumps are my way of saying "Thank you, just for being you" Its fear tastes better than its limbs Terror of morality I draw from the slowly dying damned Monsters live behind my eyes I let them out and people die And all the grave worms That come for their piece of meat I give them dead things The wretched living are mine alone Fright mounts with the body count To which anthropomancy predicts a decline In all of God's creation Can there be a lifestyle that's better than this? I mark my territory with their blood and excritement And adipocere, I can find my way in the dark My fulfilment is habitually necromanic and anal abusive Seen through the eyes of a mortician They've caught me, as they call it My teeth and my semen have betrayed me Nevermore tests to gauge my rationale The likes of which these feeble minds have never seen Rorschach blotters My responses to which inspire fear From my lizard side, the amoral alien speaks "These aren't butterflies, I see a face I'd like to burn" Obfuscation of the authorities with lies And my natural ability to charm and be me or whoever they want I've known all minds by divine right