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By = Pyrayton Svaenohr and Alexander Antonin ([personal profile] alex_antonin)

From primordial slime grows things made of meat,
Which quiver and shiver in cold and in heat;
From its own filth, from Life's shit and rot,
Life arises and suffers, then falls down to naught;
Made of hot garbage, composed of decay,
Life swims in its own filth all night and all day;
Living things eat each other, tearing down bit by bit,
Then Life turns around and eats its own shit.

From the time you're born until you decompose,
Starvation and death are the least of your woes;
There are parasites extant that will live in your eye,
And care not if you're starving, or cold, or you cry;
Or plagues that devour the flesh off your bones,
Dooming you to a life of agonized moans;
There are millions of horrors in store for you here,
To make sure you have plenty of things for to fear.

So it's plain to me what all these facts spell:
That Life on this Earth is literally Hell;
There is no God who cares for our plight,
And darkness will always devour the light;
No omnipotent savior who cries at our pain,
No soul drives your meat, only sparks in your brain;
Just Life born of refuse, of garbage, of spilth,
Eating its own shit, made of its own filth.


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