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BATHORY - Octagon
(europe Black Mark Productions BMCD 666-11)
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Recorded at the Hellhole Studios
Produced by Quorthon
Engineered by Rex Luger
Mastered by Tom Mueller
At TTM/Berlin
Recorded between the 30th of January
and the 10th of February, and between
the 13th and the 20th of March 1995
Music and Lyrics by Quorthon
Except "Deuce" written by Simmons
(Cafe Americana Inc./Kiss Songs Inc./
Gladwyne Music Publishing Corp. (ASCAP)
Album cover design, photography
and layout by Quorthon.
Bathory would like to thank the
following people and products:
Rex Luger, NNP Norrlandsp”lsa,
Coca Cola, Marshall Amplifiers,
Gibson Guitars, Ibanez Guitars,
Gibson Basses, Dean Markley Strings,
Pearl Drums, Roland Digital Drumsystem
S”dermalms Sten AB, Airfix, Tamiya
SBF and Twinings Earl Grey and Boss.
This is a product of Sweden.
Track Listing
1. Immaculate Pinetreeroad #930
2. Born to die
3. Psychopath
4. Sociopath
5. Grey
6. Century
7. 33 Something
8. War Supply
9. Schizianity
10. Judgement of Posterity
11. Deuce
SONG: "Immaculate Pinetreeroad #930"
Sixteen years of age. The suburb sets the scene.
Sixteen years of rage withheld and concealed.
Doors locked. Curtains drawn. Rehearsals begins.
Preparations made. The axe gets a final trim.
Shadowed figures came at night. The hands would
clutch and strike his thighs. The kid would not even
be weeping. This kid pretending he's sleeping.
Immaculate Pinetreeroad #930
Kept within his young strained mind all this damn time.
Not a hint at what grew steadily inside.
The hate during prayer at supper and the surpressed
at school. The need to be able to strike back grew.
Memories of fingers penetrating. Years of terror
generating emotions functioning as fuel
when this kid walks down his parents room.
Parts of bodies found. The blood splattered all around
The result of the hate unleashed. Just one shot was heard.
This suburb neighbourhood disturbed. This pained mind
has found peace. In the backyard. Shotgun at his side.
Difficult to identify. Sixteen years of age and dead.
Sixteen years of rage to an end.
Immaculate Pinetreeroad #930
SONG: "Born to Die"
I am not of Jesus Christ I'm not
and I am not a Satanic Child I'm not
and I know not no property of high or low
and I know where I come from and whereto I will go
Rat race and symbols. Crucifix and flesh.
Politics and fashion. Religion and death.
I am just a human being I am
and I am a eat-sleep-f*cking-machine I am
and I am another mortal piece of meat.
Yet I am too fast and alive for you to hand no sign on me.
Holy writings. Tax and Law. Angel wings or frying.
Suicides no use at all. We're all born to die.
I am not no more a sinner or saint than f*cking all of you.
I am no more close or far away from the truth.
I am no believer or receiver of holy or unholiness.
I am I'm f*cking no more or less.
SONG: "Psychopath"
I want to kill you and share with you my pain.
And if it thrills you I'll gladly kill again.
I want to maim you. Your throat a bleeding well.
And before your damned body's cold you're already in hell.
This is my anger. My hurt and my hate.
This is my f*cking despair.
This is my inside. My thorn and my ache.
This is my grind and my tare.
I want to tie you up. Make you beg for release.
I'll whip your body beyond sense. Cut you down piece by
piece.
I want to rape you. I'll leave you bleed in death.
This is my lust and my distorted needs.
This is my wrath and my pain.
This is my kind. This is my creed.
This is my body and brain.
This is my anger. My hurt and my hate.
This is my f*cking despair.
This is my inside. Mt thorn and my ache.
This is my grind and my tare.
This is my lust and my distorted needs.
This is my wrath and my pain.
This is my kind. This is my creed.
This is my body and brain.
SONG: "Sociopath"
Kill. Kill them all. Pigs written in blood on the walls.
Your not entitle to accuse and judge one single man
if you allow all shit that's happening in this damned
rotten land. The pressure your damned system,
religion and school puts on our minds creates an all
collective pain that no damn walls can keep inside.
Do you really think that all evil and madness rests in me.
Do you think you're safe locking me up
and then throwing away the key.
Can't you see I'm out, man. Can't you see I'm free.
Can't you see I'm out, man. Can't you see I'm just
a product of a broken nation's shattered dream.
Death. Death to all. Pigs screaming, The blood runs
down the walls. You'll never be successful trying to
keep the madness behind these walls because the pain
comes from inside and creates chaos within all.
You can put me in the chair and watch me f*cking fry.
But I am aware my death's a nation's alibi.
Can't you see I'm out, man. Can't you see I'm free.
Can't you see I'm out, man. Can't you see I'm just
a product of a broken nation's shattered dream.
Kill. Kill them all. Pigs written in blood on the walls.
Your not entitle to accuse and judge one single man
if you allow all shit that's happening in this damned
rotten land. The pressure your damned system,
religion and school puts on our minds creates an all
collective pain that no damn walls can keep inside.
Do you really think that all evil and madness rests in me.
Do you think you're safe locking me up
and then throwing away the key.
Can't you see I'm out, man. Can't you see I'm free.
Can't you see I'm out, man. Can't you see I'm just
a product of a broken nation's shattered dream.
SONG: "Grey"
They say we're free to speak to speak whatever we may have
to say and that we're free to wear it all in every f*cking way.
It's up to f*cking you to fulfill your damned f*cking life
with ease and to carry any symbol, view or dream that
you may f*cking please.
But hairstyles never cease to stir their f*cking minds
en masse. Your clothes will always bite big chumps
right out of their concrete ass. You'll be corrected.
censored and asked to appear in a milder way.
And in the end eventually if you're weak you'll
fade in grey.
Authority. Society. Parents. Teachers. Employees and God.
Authority. Society. Parents. Teachers. Employees and God.
Fade into grey. Fade into grey. Fade into grey.
For every punch you'll take in life, learn to always at least
give two. Don't ever let somebody get away shitting on you.
There may be laws to follow. Drugs to stay away from in
your life. But never live it feeling your damned hands and
feets always being tied.
But hairstyles never cease to stir their fucking minds
en masse. Your clothes will always bite big chumps
right out of their concrete ass. You'll be corrected.
censored and asked to appear in a milder way.
And in the end eventually if you're weak you'll
fade in grey.
SONG: "Century"
Freedom of speech and that of information.
To gather in prayer and for demonstrations.
Freedom to choose. Freedom found driving a car.
To posess a remote control and the right to arm.
Supermarket. Machine gun. Voices talk from inside.
Unemployment and touchdown. Holy book full of lies.
Suicidal intentions. There's no kingdom up high.
Presidential elections. Superman never dies.
Conservatism. Communism. Paganism. Nationalsocialism
Liberalism. Satanism. Christianity. Slavery. Anarchy. Lunacy.
Insanity. Mediocracy. Assorted Century.
Genetic disortion and UN resolutions.
Pro-life and abortions. The final solution.
Vivi-section. Disorder. Cosmetique for the disabled.
Civil crime watch camcorder. Cocained soft drink containers.
Amusement and passion. Files on serial killers.
Abusement and fashion. Queenies Asshole refillers.
Read my lips. Need I say there's a lot of shit on the hill.
But it all fits in the grave. Somewhat more darkness and
chill.
Sociopath. Psychopath. Autograph. Schizofrenia. Empathy.
Biography. All humanity. Majority. Minority. But then
regardless of which it's a f*cking damn assorted century.
Conservatism. Communism. Paganism. Nationalsocialism
Liberalism. Satanism. Christianity. Slavery. Anarchy. Lunacy.
Insanity. Mediocracy. Assorted Century.
Sociopath. Psychopath. Autograph. Schizofrenia. Empathy.
Biography. All humanity. Majority. Minority. But then
regardless of which it's a fucking damn assorted century.
SONG: "33 Something"
Chained to the log. Handcuffed and drugged.
Still pain is all you feel.
A piece of meat that hardly breathes.
Still much a human being.
Forcing his way into your ass.
John Wayne Gacy is near.
Flesh will rip and bloody will flow.
This death comes in your rear.
One of 33 something.
All who were raped and bled.
The last thing you will ever hear
before your fucking dead is...
Drink my cum. Take my rum.
Blooded hole. Twisted soul.
Eat my shit. Suck my dick.
Writhe in pain and die insane.
With every breath inhale the stench
of lubrication shit and sweat.
The smell of love the smell of human
blood and excrement.
Once you've played with Mr. Gacy,
there's no way out. No release.
In the attic is all hell, then in the
basement you'll find peace.
One of 33 something.
All who were raped and bled.
The last thing you will ever hear
before your fucking dead is...
Drink my cum. Take my rum.
Blooded hole. Twisted soul.
Eat my shit. Suck my dick.
Writhe in pain and die insane.
Drink my cum. Take my rum.
Blooded hole. Twisted soul.
Eat my shit. Suck my dick.
Writhe in pain and die insane.
SONG: "War Supply"
War. The ultimate. The pinnacle of friend or foe.
Always declared by the high and fought out by the low.
Elevated to the state of honourable feud.
Fought to capitulation or death. Either him or you.
Cannon fodder dressed up proud to fight or even die.
Carrying cross of Christ, the star of David, Swastika or
word of God, the hammer and the sickle or banner
splattered with your blood. Camouflaged and drilled
you await all hell in confidence, at peace. Blown apart,
one could not tell your brains from your feet.
As your spirit slips away and Earth drinks from your blood.
The irony is that the last thing you'll think is - "Oh my
God!".
When your...
War Supply. War Supply. War Supply.
Not until that mine has torn you in two you'll
think just fucking "why".
At the bottom of the crater in a burning deaths terrain.
You grab your head as if to keep yourself from goin' insane.
Tracers cut a million burning tracks above your head.
Staring at your support weapon, wishing that you'd dare.
Just one delicate press on the trigger and it's all gone.
Ask yourself if your one life is worth spending this way.
Tell me where's all glory you seek among countless young
men slain. Indoctrinated as you are by
church, school, government
and your command you'll think more of how your death will
contribute and benefit your land.
In uniform you look all swell as you march off to war.
From now on your damn rubber body-bag will be your style
forever more.
War Supply. War Supply. War Supply. War Supply.
War Supply. War Supply. War Supply. War Supply.
War Supply. War Supply. War Supply. Not until that
mine has torn you in two you'll think just fucking "why".
SONG: "Schizianity"
I'm but a shell. A frame of a man. I'm but a glimpse of
whom I used to be. I'm no more life and lust.
I'm only rich on time to spend venting my own spleen.
I'm sick as hell. I am in desperate need of heeling.
Need to feel salvation. Or I might as well embrace death.
I could never stand a world of sin and fornication.
The world is full of whores. All this filth and heresy.
I am a tool of the Lord. I have eternal life.
The will of God was executed through my deeds.
The voice of God I heard. All filth and unclean I
disintegrated to prepare Gods paradise in this world.
I read the holy writings. I read Matthew's 18th chapter,
7th, 8th and 9th. And I realised what had to be done.
And that I just had so little time.
The world is so full of sin. Blasphemy and sacrilege.
For as I believe in him. I have eternal life after death.
What have I done so wrong. Why have they put me in this
place without no windows. I'm no more life and lust.
I'm only rich on time to spend venting my own spleen.
The world is so full of fools. Vagrant souls and lustful flesh.
But as I believe in him. I have eternal life after death.
SONG: Judgement of Posterity
Ten million barrels at sea. Atmospheric temperature
increases.
Fourhundredthousand acres a day. Post-generation to pay.
Chimneys spew death day and night. Chemicals with every
bite.
Layer of mist in the sky. Filtering no more the light.
Toxic waste. Debris. On land, in the air and at sea.
You can't shut it out. With every breath reality.
This is the key. Objection of history. Now all that remains...
The judgement of posterity.
Toxic waste. Debris. On land, in the air and at sea.
You can't shut it out. With every breath reality.
This is the key. Objection of history. Now all that remains...
The judgement of posterity.
Substances lethal en masse. Genetical codes harassed.
Disassembled and distorted chains of DNA nourished
to breed life again. Elevated. Erected. Enriched.
Developed. Perfected and pitched. Educated. Equipped
and supreme. Initiated. Homo Sapiens. Human being.
Toxic waste. Debris. On land, in the air and at sea.
You can't shut it out. With every breath reality.
This is the key. Objection of history. Now all that remains...
The judgement of posterity.
Toxic waste. Debris. On land, in the air and at sea.
You can't shut it out. With every breath reality.
This is the key. Objection of history. Now all that remains...
The judgement of posterity.
Ten million barrels at sea. Atmospheric temperature
increases.
Fourhundredthousand acres a day. Post-generation to pay.
Toxic waste. Debris. On land, in the air and at sea.
You can't shut it out. With every breath reality.
This is the key. Objection of history. Now all that remains...
The judgement of posterity.
Toxic waste. Debris. On land, in the air and at sea.
You can't shut it out. With every breath reality.
This is the key. Objection of history. Now all that remains...
The judgement of posterity.
SONG: Deuce
Get up
And get your grandma outta here
Pick up
Old Jim is workin' hard this year
And baby
Do the things he says to do
Baby, if you're feeling good
And baby if you're feeling nice
You know your man is workin' hard
He's worth a deuce
Honey
Don't put your man behind his years
And baby
Stop cryin' all your tears
Baby
Do the things he says to do
Do it
Baby, if you're feeling good
And baby if you're feeling nice
You know your man is workin' hard
He's worth a deuce
And baby, if you're feeling good
Yes baby if you're feeling nice
You know your man is workin' hard
Yeah
Lyrics in plain text format
