The Grave Robber's Work

The Black Dahlia MurderThe Black Dahli… 

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The Black Dahlia Murder

The Black Dahlia Murder is an American metal band from Waterford, Michigan, formed in 2000. Their name is derived from the 1947 unsolved murder of Elizabeth Short, often referred to as Black Dahlia. The band comprises vocalist Trevor Strnad, guitarists Brian Eschbach and Ryan Knight, bassist Max Lavelle and drummer Shannon Lucas. Out of their five studio albums, the latest four of them charted on the US Billboard 200, with 2009's Deflorate peaking at No. 43 and their latest album Ritual reaching No. 31. more »

Year:

2011

3:37

103 Views

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The grave robber's work is never done,
It's up all night and sleep all day,
The hours are shit with hell to pay.
Pockets are brimming from our unique brand of sinning,
When the ladies claw my back at night,
I know I'm doing something right.
I deliver the goods as long as they don't ask,
Deny I'm a working stiff like dear old dad,
And to you and yours nothing but curses,
You'll slave your life away,
And for what?
You're just as dead as these old fucks.
They'll never get me,
I'll never run out of stock,
With every second that ticks past,
The bodies are still stacking up.

So I've clipped a few fingers off to get that gold 
For which I lust from the deadman's bank and trust,
To the depths of hell or bust.
The blackened bits of exhumed evidence 
Embedded neath my fettered fingernails,
It's but a smallish part of what our dirty work entails.

Come dance with me,
This graveyard planet that you've called Earth 
You hold in such a high regard,
It's but as worthless as a turd.
Will you follow me into the dark?
I rob the dead for what they're worth,
Jewels, wealth, clothing, sex.
When the mood prefers to carve a sullen path through life,
Within the fallen's shoes you'd turn your nose at me,
Although I smell of sheik perfumes.

So I've clipped a few fingers off to get that gold 
For which I lust from the deadman's bank and trust,
To the depths of hell or bust.

Haunted by faces when I try to close my eyes,
So deeply it festers,
The guilt is murder.

The blackened bits of exhumed evidence 
Embedded neath my fettered fingernails,
It's but a smallish part of what our dirty work entails.
May the gods have mercy.

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