The Wraith from White Fever by che guevara t-shirt

Bed it seeks to swallow me
And it's one shot two shot three shots breathe
I long for the pillow to smother me
Four shots five shots six shots sleep

Blankets begin to encumber my feet
Seven eight nine ten eleven nineteen
Bedclothes moan to awaken me
And inform me the last bottle's empty
(go get another)

The wraith is writing
The tomes they speak
Of endless dying
Beneath the sheets
The night is rising
The sun grows bleak
Sleeping dogs are lying
Don't move or speak
The wraith is writhing
His bones they squeak
The dogs are crying
It's been weeks
The dogs are howling
The wraith he stinks
Not much left on him
But hell it's meat

• Albany NY
• Rock
• noise rock
• post-hardcore
• post-metal
• progressive sludge metal
• Albany