Cursed Be Your Breast - Handful of Hate

I despise your seasons your charming pulses with a primitive ego

With a primitive ego

I crave to bite your revered face

I crave to stab your dreaded breast

Hostile, beloved, prostitute, scourge among your begging sons

Nothing can be understood

«Make thick my blood

Stop up the access and passage to remorse

That no compunctious visiting of nature shake my fell purpose

Nor keep peace between the effect and it

Come to my woman’s breasts and take milk for gall

Your murdering ministers

Wherever, in your sightless substances

You wait on nature’s mischief

Come, thick night, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of Hell

That my keen knife see not the wound it makes

Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark to cry

Hold, hold!»