| In the dissection of flesh and the sawing of bone, I’ve coaxed confessions
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| From the lips of the dead, Postmortem scrutiny that has clinically shone, The
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| Horrifying facts that would have never been said… Unbosoming their secrets
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| In the sickening results of their demise, Stomaching these wretched human
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| Riddles, I carve, hack and slice, Illuminating the dusty skeletons that lurk
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| In closets, bones and entrails, Enduring the ghastly visage of violent death
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| In my forensic travails… Whether in pieces or completely decomposed, I asses
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| With clinical indifference, The remnants of a life which grisly circumstance
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| Has brought to this office, Ensuring that truth shall endure after the flesh
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| Has crumbled and rotted away, Elucidating atrocities and carnage, the
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| Thankless job I perform day after day… Persistent incisions that cut to the
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| Quick are my stock in trade, To scrutinize what remains of a life
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| Painstaking effort will have to be made, At times both evidence and flesh are
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| Profoundly encrypted and shred, It can be murder to pry answers from the
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| Mouths of the dead… A gutted torso can pose a bevy of answerless questions
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| To deliberate, Probing with a scalpel, I expose the morbid cavity that I now
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| Must eviscerate, Unlocking death’s mysteries with my forceps, tweezers and
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| Saw, Wringing revelations from a fibula, fossa or jaw… Recording
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| Confessions that are uttered without making a sound, From informants long dead
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| That I’ve culled from the ground, Beneath the pallid veil of cold flesh or
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| Enshrouded in the shredded remains of a face, Exhuming the truth is my
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| Occupation, no matter how decrepit its resting place… Within the bowels of a
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| Horribly mutilated corpse or a splattered brain, Picking apart flesh and
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| Deceit 'til only the cold facts remain, Dead men will tell tales if you know
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| How to listen and learn, Even when they’ve been stabbed, beaten, shot, hacked
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| Up and burned… This morbid quest for knowledge is not without its rewards
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| Much can be extrapolated from a decrepit infants gourd, My bureau’s a slab, my
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| Text is a corpse, and I’ve studied with sincere, ardent fervor, And found that
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| Often man’s inhumanity to man is all to well deserved… |