Corpse Factory

The machines are relentless, the blood’s the vital sign,
in the factory of the damned, where death’s the design.
The stench of decay is constant, the screams are mechanized,
in the heart of the horror, where the life is compromised.

We work through the night, in the cold and the gore,
in the corpse factory’s heart, where death’s the core.
The factory’s a nightmare, the work is dark and grim,
in the world of the lifeless, where the light is dim.

We process the bodies, in the cruel machine’s embrace,
in the corpse factory’s world, where the darkness finds its place.

Corpse factory, where death’s a cruel art,
in the cold, industrial night, where the horror starts.
In the processing of the lifeless, where the nightmares arise,
corpse factory endures, in the darkness it lies.