In droves,
materializing from all directions,
on twice volcanicized thrice frenetic avenues;

in homicidal evergreen tree idols,
streets once devastated by smiles,

in death, in birth,
in flawless execution,
in suicide
in the virgin mortician's marathon mind,
in trash heap remains of his virginity
in Virginia, in New York,
in conspiracy.

As in,
he fought the law,
and it was a war.
The law
is a broken record
in the optical illusory record store,

and I'm in love
with the way that he spoke,
with the crumple in his face,
and the cool in his fate,
and the clock in his stomach,
and the knuckles on his forehead,
and the blood on his teeth,
and the freeze in his brain,
and his breast in his breast,
the trash heap heap trash bang anti-paradiddle;
the lightning pricked
my tongue my gun
the smoke
dribbled down his gun
done done.

He was gone within a year,
but everybody saw him;
oh, you mean the virgin mortician?!

I mean the virgin mortician;
I'm in the virgin mortician!

I'm in the mortician.

Lyrics submitted by marzipanflows

The Virgin Mortician song meanings
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