Memories of salty sweat
Pouring from a frowning face
Deep thoughts of dismemberment
What to sever next

Limber fingers pulling
Bones from out its flesh
Skin sewn into a bag
To carry the remains of this mess

Left to swing in the wind
For someone soon to find
A perfect gift for anyone
Non machine washable

That's what we were
Flesh desperados
Waiting for a train
With passengers to massacre

Masks instead of sombreros
No guns only knives
And the occasional hatchet
And of course the much needed bone saw

Flesh desperados
Waiting for a train
Departure towards hell
Next stop utter pain