Fickselbomber Panzerplauze

Mist, mist, on the wall
Spits old tricks in my hand
We don’t want to nurse any fawns
Don’t want to be watched in a dead vow

Miss, miss, smells so faintly
Of mold and in this way
She grabs at old hunts
Burns dead ears in the sentence

Starts with the chair made of dead bone
Stabs sharp steel in the dark grove
Shocks the body with pale senses
You won’t escape the whip crack

Now drift away from the pale sun
Forget the chains of your pleasure
Sink in the slime of the wilted cunt
Loudly fermented with cold vomit

Mist, mist, all tangled
Will never praise our pleasure today
Burns out in case of a fall
Especially since it never comes up short

Damn rust, in case of a seed
Decomposes the ash, oh how fine
Gray desire, so hot and full
Licks liverwurst, still raw and plump