Tom Waits

Follow me, the raspy voice

Scratched by sulfur cigarettes;

A rusty sound to pull you down

And lead the path to hell.

It’s the place to yield at last

This sick corpse in which you dwell;

Unclasp your claws and feel so close

The smell of decadence.

Ignore this rotting bodies

And the ghosts that choke on rage.

I’ll dig your tomb in this dark room

Of torture and despair.

On the slab, once you’re secured,

Stripped of clothes but not of shame,

Cry your goodbyes and close your eyes

As you begin to yell.