Satan's on His Way & He Wants His Drugs

by Touch A.C.

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Skeks* This guy is dope.. It's too bad the world appears to be sleepin. Dark bangin' beats graced by creative, intelligent rhymes that keep you thirsty for more. I can only hope that there's more to come.
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about

released 21 June 2014 through Probable Cause Productions
Music by Filthy Rich
Words by Touch Armor Class

"Snakes Hissin'" featuring Blitz and Demi Demaree
"The Necromancer" featuring CJ Prof
"The Spider Possum" featuring Nacirema
"Poster of a Cat" featuring Sloe Pink
"Get Bent" featuring Kogan Dumb and Dat Boi Dunn

Additional Guitars by J. Aleister
Additional Cuts by DJ Calcutta

Mixed, Mastered, and Engineered by Filthy Rich at the Probable Cause Productions studios in Louisville, KY

Album Art by S8N
Graphics by Yng Steve

credits

released June 21, 2014

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about

Touch A.C. Louisville, Kentucky

Woke up in escape pod. Unsure of year. Must rap.

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Track Name: Into Temptation
Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.
Track Name: Wrath & The Sand & The Salt
Life breath legitimized. Cosmic dust. Imbued with the trust to resist the rust. Emergency emergence through the common crust. The conception of the humble vs. the gods that crush. Many-face deity, I’m doing my thing with particular, meticulous, vehicular dreams. I've seen ‘em all fly, then I watched ‘em all plummet. Sittin’ in a sinkhole – quicksand stomach. Life’s just a stich in a sitch but the bitch left six inter-fixed with six different chicks. Change is a thing that begins in your liver while it clangs heavy chains up your frame like a shiver. When your brain’s finally touched it can barely keep up because another new truth is arranged in the flux. This is what it’s like when the mud gets deeper. The race seems tight but my cheese is on Reaper.

No sunlight down in the trenches. No gunfights over conniving wenches. Imagine, if you will, that galaxies are bricks – now stack each one to the beat and take a hit. Architect of pyramids amid the heathens that laughs while they hypothesize over reasons. Jesus. I felt the kids all lookin’ then smoked like dragon breath or my hash cookin’. Why defend a cause that don’t need defendin’ like you’re tearin’ up the space between the coffins with a vengeance? Why give opinions on the whims of minions? Bitterness resides between betrayals by my kinsmen. Deplete liver. Zero fuck giver. Touch, guerrilla radio relief spitter. Concrete splitter. Trust me it’ll blow your fuckin’ mind when you see shit realer.

One last gulp from a well well-poisoned (I’m parched as shit, brother, and it’s only been a week!). Scheme-hatchers braggin’ over hatchets that they buried when it’s obvious they carry ‘em – shit’s embarrassing. Spark a light archetype. Arsonist, Arkham-like. Carcass-type hark unto the archons on the Tarc at night. Mission statement: rippin’ your paradigm a new one ‘cause I learned to rap in Pentecostal churches using two tongues. Dude, should the son remain prodigal then who the fuck would stay the same? Comical. Zealots sell it and proselytize, jealous. Shit creek, no paddle? No problem! Propellers! Meat body melt down. True form go to war. Face met the floor by the basement door. When it rains, it pours. I’m arranging the chords before I toss a detonator – make a break for the door!

[ I’m trying to transcend thought – stand beyond wrath and the sand and the salt. Champion chance for your man? Who’d have thought?! It’s the Pantheon smash, mother fucker, that’s all. ]
Track Name: Snakes Hissin' (feat. Blitz & Demi Demaree)
1986 is when I took my first breath. They cut the umbilical then sent me right into my death. My liver’s soaked in whiskey, my brain is soaked in stress. My wallet’s always empty, I’m shame cloaked in debts. The same broken mess as the man who came before me. My last name alone allows addiction to distort me. I dream of meta-morphing without the use of morphine to ease the pain of life’s knife like Jason Vorhees. Ain’t no crystals in my lake; only paste and pearly gates with a pissed St. Peter ‘cause he knows the shit was fake. My name mocks the book because I can’t hesitate to evaluate pastors preachin’ just to get paid. I see culprits in the pulpits and the sacrilegious liars, heavens fallin’ down to cleanse the wicked in fires, Babylon’s sires poised inside spires aspirin to take souls and sell to the highest buyers. Choir’s singin’ higher, the situation is dire! Fuck a 40” rim, I got donuts on my tires. 98 Montana like my style’s sorta tired but fuck it, I’m not a rapper, I’m a prophet – I can’t retire. This is my religion - the Pope is my position; exercising my ambition with a lyrical precision and while some don’t wanna listen, I’m still grippin’ to a vision of living outside a system that’s not in a rescue mission. Listen.

BLITZ

DEMI


[ Listen! We got snakes hissin'! Listen! You can hear snakes hissin'! Listen! All around our position! Listen! You can hear snakes hissin'! ]
Track Name: Locutus
My flow tie the room together like it was the Dude’s rug. These dudes thugs?! Probably view True Blood. Probably do dudes, bruh. Refuse lube, huh? I see that shit when I see this dude’s mug. Sippin’ a brew mug, doin’ a few drugs, and makin’ moves on your girl tellin’ her you is a stooge, son. My moves done outshined you; I’ll out-rhyme you then watch while that chalk outlines you. Try as you might, you can’t write like I do. Mr. Miyagi kickin’ holes right through your vitals. False idols get squashed under my banners. Cobra Commander smokin’ Buddha spittin’ sick banter. End of story: you bore me. You keeping score, B? I’m pourin’ forties with your bitch, she sportin’ shorties. She picks it up and drops it to where the floor be. I’m spittin’ morbid and gory, I’m a borg, see?!
Track Name: The Necromancer (feat. CJ Prof)
I rapidly accelerate rapper decomposition from the double helix to the bleedin’ gums from which they’re liftin’ some of the most nonsensical bullshit that, like much before it, doesn’t deserve to be written (but still is). I leapt in God’s mouth and came out Satan’s shitter the most ridiculous flame spitter since Leviticus’ main figures. Mainstay on the mountain top I’ve chosen as my stompin’ grounds and ain’t no way in Moses’ name I’m walkin’ down. I keep a sour disposition ‘cause, after all, what’s a pawn to a bishop? A husk to a politician? Nah, fuck that! I’m not suggestin’, just insistin’. I’ll be the first to shut my shit when others learn to listen. Keep my toes crossed that my torso can stay put and spit those Patmos raps slow; get your brain cooked. Go on and hold counsel with those worldly wise men, I’ll be puffin’ moon rocks illuminatin’ thoughts of blind men. I spoke with Lazarus, he said the second time’s alright, so we toasted to the average and the Louisville skyline. I call the place the Dead City - so, in a certain sense, you could say I’m bringing the dead with me. I’ll take a vodka tonic, hombre, make it easy on the tonic ‘cause if this record doesn’t do well, I’ma need my bread for chronic. Reality’s a bitch and these fuckers love to flaunt it. Prof, Touch, and Filthy Rich invest in what’s beyond it.

I trace the mortal edge like my dude Greg Graffin ‘cause when he spoke on fiction and truth, I guess my brain grabbed it. I survived a bad religion and a million bad habits – a patchwork golem woven to his black fabrics. Consider launchin’ them pods, boy, before the core explodes. Sweatin’ bourbon out of every single pore but more composed. Who the fuck’s keepin’ score? I mosey more important zones. Couple more of those and I’ll be donkey punchin’ horoscopes. Snipin’ ripened constellations out the bitter gold sky. They call him “Touch Gravity” and now you know why. Ain’t a shine that can’t be dulled when seen through certain eyes; Poseidon snortin’ sea scum, lurkin perverted tides. Pantheon Slayer, retired from action – now I sit alone, godless, on a cosmic infraction. Lock his ass up and toss the key inside a black hole but never scrath the legacy: Touch was an asshole. On the day that God decides the jokes over stand aside and watch this. In Jesus’ name I hope the guillotine drops quick – over the top with colossal dropkicks. Snappin’ rapper clavicles like fuckin’ chopsticks. I make it so like Jean-Luc say so, bitch, on screen! No queso, pesos, or belongings. Spent a night or two inside the brig and feelin’ peachy. Banishin’ televangelists weekly found on T.V.

CJ PROF
Track Name: Case of the Tuesdays
Today I crawled out of my usual sarcophagus with unusual confidence, with an ominous type of closure enhancing my posture with dominance – but by 10 AM I had realized life, again, sucks. Sorry, that’s a pessimistic mind accused of worse than lining plucks and maybe scraping the silver off and replacing it with something a little better…something a little blacker - somewhere between the shade of a 2003 Nissan Altima and my ex-girlfriends’ description of my heart. Regardless, I’d place it back in the sky then tap it on the shoulder and say, “You’ve got a job to do now buddy!” Then sit back and complain my ass a thunderstorm so insane the rain would choke Mother Earth at her jugular vein. But I shed that exo shit a little while back and road rage is so unattractive to strange girls. Fuck it, I need a deranged girl so somebody hand me my remote mines and let’s do this shit. Impulsively, I toss my Black & Mild out the window – even though I knew half way through the action I was littering; I just didn’t care. Oh, did I mention I’ve upgraded to paperless statements at U.S. Bank? I guess I’m going green but it’s that real nasty shade…like wet baby shit. Foaming at the mouth on some rabies tip chewin’ threads of fate like wires; maybe it suits me fine. I could think of worse ways to go – double-back flip through a flaming table like a pro. A 30-pack of Coors Light is my suitcase; maybe this is a sooth-say. Ain’t no sayin’ it two ways – I’ve got a case of the Tuesdays.
Track Name: The Spider Possum (feat. Nacirema)
Mellow Mephistopheles coolin’ on a Tuesday; chillin’, kickin’ parables – they’re terrible but true. Bonafide bloodlust, appetite doomsday; get your fuckin’ mind blown, they call him “Touch Toupe.” Where I sleep, we shake the spiders from our shoes before we wear ‘em. Wake and bake ritual, welcome the people starin’. I get stoned like Sharon, it’s written in the tablets and I don’t feel like sharin’ this inheritance or mattress. Slide forth with a head like a hole; recitin’ Bible verses backwards, real slow. No time to waste saving face with these hoes, I’m posted in the opium den with three crows. Third eye pukin’ a hadoken on some weird shit then go Scott Summers meet Wolverine – fearless. Killin’ spree logic, waste ‘em based on just appearance and I pray to fuckin’ God that my mom never hears this. Shootin’ for a pass around a semi-stable star, an amalgam of bourbon, resin hits, and tar. These pussies actin’ mangrown ain’t seen a Winter harsh so I’m back from the dead loadin’ Loud in cigars. Manticore-fest destiny, Touch Hierophant –styrofoam cup in one hand, I’m trying to drive with it. Despite the odds, standin’ on piles of smashed idols cause it’s viral (yes) and vital to the environment.

NACIREMA

[ Now, I’ve seen a lot of things in my day, my friend – but how does one summarize facin’ the end? And how does one come alive, evasive again, when it’s hard to find grace in the face of a friend? Rick Flair chest slap; crowd yellin’ “Woooo” – empowerment bowin’ out with cowardice in pursuit. Get the fuck outta here, Wedge, ain’t shit that you can do; I’ve got a case of the Tuesdays, I’m afraid to face the truth. ]
Track Name: Ego Crushin'
Ego crushin’. I know not me but I know that he know nothin’. He sold somethin’ that resembled a soul – into a free-flow, fuck him when he grow and get old. See now he wanna talk about a thing as if he knows anything about anything. Arrogance is often understood so well by humans because we wear it in the midst of our illusions. A god is born amid the DNA amenders pretendin’ positivity is something we can render out of pathological liars transformed to avengers and slashin’ out of the wires wrapped around appendage. I just broke out my own sunset and sat it down where the proud townsfolk met then posed a single question – not a challenge, but to shake it up – instead to shed the skin that kept me stuck inside my basement, fucked.

Take a piece of who I claimed I was and toss it in the ocean. Take a piece of who I claimed I was and feed it to the Titans. There is no more need for falsehood in this repose of devotion. Tell them everything I ever claimed to learn was through me bitin’. Does it strike anyone else as even a little strange that this fringe life freakshow squashed in a frame is a social experiment where complex creatures all pretend to share the exact same brain?! Hold up, I ain’t crazy, Brospeh, I can just admit that the most learned drone among us don’t know shit. It’s not pessimistic if you don’t apply the twist of a morbid disposition meets a dislocated disk. I’m a solo sorcerer. Who, though? The Brujo. Stacked with a couple of voodoo dolls for who knows why; why not?! Spittin’ sunlight shit – watch the moon dry rot.

[ I ain’t shit man, don’t get it twisted. Work 40+ just to get dumb lifted. Towin’ the cusp of a soul so gifted and a nomad pussin’ out – whole show shifted. ]
Track Name: He's Near
(Instrumental)
Track Name: Gritface
I stand upon the precipice of honesty and homicide. Step aside unless you want a glimpse inside the monster’s mind. Mastermind of mutant-kind, a putrid kind of mutiny. Mind-meld magician who’s weaving, despite the scrutiny. Judge not lest I be judged, or so I’m hopin’. Overcookin’ confidence, notice the shit smokin’. Evokin’ certain feelings while others remain open to interpretation based on the shape of your frame chosen. Snort star dust, shootin’ up recompense inside a chamber decorated double with your decadence somewhere between Andromeda and Breckenridge in a compound choppin’ local rappers up for bref-a-kist. Kill two, praise one; that’s the way my jam thumps over these retarded drums that Filthy built with phantoms. Deus Ex Machina, a capellas is opera operatin’ in proper top position playin’ popular. 20 face death machine I smoke it when I need to clarify I’m arrow in the darkness +3 (oooooh). Pharaoh of the paralyze department trust me, to paraphrase, I’m perilous my parables must be true.

Re-iterate regurgitated scraps off the dinner plate. This is what a soul sounds like when it incinerates. One small step for man and that’s fine. Just wake my ass up when it’s close to tax time. Flat line physics got a past a time bliss it’s almost enough to tip Nostalgia for the business. Instead, I keep on truckin’ like “Fuck it, it’s overrated” – keeping countenance with cowards’ll get your carcasses cremated. To follow I and I is to spy Sinai come alive, cyanide creature crawl inside your eye, sigh a lie, try a “Hi” by and by diatribe firefly, flyer ride, so divine. Bogies on my six all flyin’ in threes but I’m aligned with the seas – Touch Leviathan Sneeze. I be the apostrophe personalizin’ my apostasy, possibly lip-lockin’ with light beams sloppily. I am the fiendish freedom fighter, the single sire, bring this evil fire back home. Fuck it.

[This is the message you should harken. This is the Gritface talkin’. ]
Track Name: Poster of a Cat (feat. Sloe Pink)
SLOE PINK

Your favorite rapper wouldn’t last a night in the wilds where I resurrected Judas just to bite his style. Legion, legendary, leave no tracks where I step; I’m reppin’ from the fine print to the headline. Double-dipped in not givin’a shit. Double time cuppin’ a fifth, finish it quick. I do it for the geniuses and dipshits – Touch Planewalker and the crew of misfits. Moonshine carrier, extra-carricular doom, spine slayer, gloom rhyme sprayer. Reality dips as fast as it came. Spirits of cowardice mask their names. Surface level levitation soars the same it’s like “Fuck that more of the same.” The spores, the cane, the score of the game they got me moonwalkin’ home, lookin’ forward to fame.

[ I’m a poster of a cat saying “Hang in there” with those cute button eyes that whisper, “I don’t even care.” I’m supposed to swallow lies but it’s the hopeless who despair and be still while the Nude Descends the Staircase. ]
Track Name: Luna
She’s back in the sky in a triumphant light – in a silent delight – but she’s showing melanoma. Glowin’ in copious space, she is hopin’ the place all around her refrains supernova. Over the ownership mother ship that she chose to impose to my bones and my soul; another night, any night, then I might (just might) get alone – her thrown over my shoulder. Clone little soldier marching to war for the poor that were promised the keys to the door to the people the Lord and His people adore; I ain’t beefin’ no more, I let it be when it smolders. As for me, I will keep being bored, be ignored, be adorned but I’ll be never sober. As for she in the sheets of the stars, if you see her please tell her we are over.

This crescent luminescent essence is nothing more than nostalgia getting drunk and undressing. And every conversation is just the past; just a suggestion. And like every fucking pessimist ducking learning his lesson, I guess I don’t have enough breaths left to repent of my transgressions.

All I’m trying to say is that I think the moon might be cheating on me
Track Name: In Pursuit of Valkyries
One Friday night, nothing to do. New melloys, that means new shoes. Stepped outside to experience the view. What I saw next had your dude straight stirrin’. I was vexed by the way the foot traffic took a deterrent. Still, I pursued – stubborn in my course. Of course, I saw no reason to abandon ship. I thought I could approach the situation. Give a nod, keep pacin’ like behemoths we facin’ surely had me prepared for Valkyrie chasin’ (or so I assumed). Never mind, back to the fact. The way the sun sat on a Nissan Altima, black. The wayfaring vagrant, the peril attached. The dead keep dancing with the dead. The strings get pulled. Peace, guillotine, head. I could go on – but for the wrong purposes, I fear. I’ll settle for a grudge and a beer. An insincere apology in tongues unclear but yet some missed the mark when they thought they heard them well enough. I said “I’ll hit ya later”, she said she wasn’t sure if she was feeling my nature. Looking back I think she did me a favor. Ain’t nothing like waking up to waking up. Still I kill my inhibitions. Neural net neutralized, plural intermissions. Oh, so now we’re on the couch?! Queens of the Stone Age record on repeat?! She was Delilah given permission to alter follicles – slippin’ out of her tank top, the goddess of all molecules. I allowed myself a moment intertwined with Divinity. One thing led to another; exited vicinity. Back to square one, not a cab in sight. Seemed best to foot it. On that night I understood it but still….déjà vu is a mother fucker. Looking back, I should’ve fucked her. Oh, God.

Round two. She hit my phone it was like “Good Golly” – either Molly or she’s sorry. Probably Molly, though. I’m ornery, too. Creature carrying out careful conversation, I hit the Black & Mild one last time. I imagine life with no breath – well, here we are! – alone on the steps! Ain’t got to wonder what’s next….that’s a nice dress…let’s get it off. She’s hoping her boyfriend won’t call. I’m hoping he does and hears it all then all my terrible poetry will finally be vindicated. Until then, it’s bottom’s up! Toasted glasses at a Red Wedding…shucks! An intermission at the strangest time. You may have made the painting but the god dang frame is mine. I know that we were in some crazy times so peace to you, lady. Too crazy fine.

[Man, I swear, it’s about damn time.
(I think it’s a full moon, bro)
Man, I swear, it’s been too long.]
Track Name: Get Bent (feat. Kogan Dumb & Dat Boi Dunn)
KOGAN DUMB

And I got about fifteen feet outside the building before you could say all hell broke loose. How could I forget? One foot in the ditch, one hand on the shrooms, and I’m gone off Goose. Don’t mind me, I could take the long way. I’m trying to see life in the basic wrong way. I swear, my lungs must look like Pompeii – Volcano loaded with the Death Star. Type 2 sunset, the lad was selfish but fresh, no questions, the fits was hellish. I would feast in the eve then sip in the mornin’; the money never made it to the bank, bro. Jerry Garcia puffin dank dro – a zip, a couple onions, and a skank…A dude like me never had to try too hard to lose his mind! I told ‘em, live a little, it’s likely just a phase. Blood red beard, it’s slightly out of place. And I won’t lie, I’ve got a feeling familiar to a pigeon but it won’t fly. Tone deaf in the bone dry wind. My tone and my gin both got me hollerin’ at Most High (I’ve been in a long-ass time – egg drop soup in the cracks of my mind!). Smash through the roof, Batman comin, hold up! Glass everywhere, Stone Cold comin’, oh fuck! Welcome to the flood, I will happily submerge you. It’s a Feast for Crows so I got ahold of Bird Zoo. It’s sad that these rappers are actin’ like night crawlers when the fact is they’re just up past curfew.

Dat Boi Dunn:
[ Got no idea what I've been through. So much stress on my mental. My baby momma's trippin' and the rent's due. This that shit we get bent to. So I stay high. So much smoke that I open up a window. Roll one you could get bent, too. ]
Track Name: Unholy Ghost
The Son of Man’s son I am – stand speakin’. Every mic stand in the hand of a damn heathen. Phantom leech logic, disconnected from the host. That stream just don’t seem so red now. Feast or famine, I’m keeping this shit moving like pre-historic people, deep in the trip, shroomin’. Grab a shovel start Jesus-Freakin’ fumin’. We sleep in what we dig, I’m trying to dig amid the ruin. By “dig”, I mean “run.” By “run”, I mean “ramble.” Air Christ, shut ‘em down in +1 sandals. Eucharist facelifted, hominid gone vandal. Crack the fortress of the egg inside your mind! Time itself speaks against the voice of false prophets, a sign of self-weakness until the mission is accomplished. If I ever feel accomplishing the mission is a promise then flay my fuckin’ skin for the craven and the honest. Leper at the gates of consciousness, sittin’ outside the city walls trying to levitate with confidence. I made a point to slay the joint that made a compliment come across cradle-to-the-coffin cacophonic. Nestled in a level of a traveler’s mindset, I’ll be offering my service for a frivolous dime, bet. Bet what? Bet I’m better when I’m breadless. Nothing lasts forever, sister? That’s just talkin’ reckless.

Most days, I post up. In nothin’ I trust. Givin’ up the ghost plus inhalin’ the rust. Slit-wrist ravager scavengin’ angel dust, just a basilisk that clap when your cranium go to crust. I Ravishing Rick Rudely, truly, ain’t givin’ a fuck. So, miss me with that brittle bullshit and fisticuffs. I’m a “Start from square one” type kind that don’t question. Night crawlin’ blind, killin’ time is so depressing. Listen to them streets sleep, son, you’ll learn a lesson’. Correction. Listen to them streets speak, you’ll hear ‘em stressin’. Correction. Listen to ‘em weep and get yourself a blessin’. Impressionable freak show, belief is just a weapon. Capital “F” in “The fuck is this dude doin’?” Keepin ties with flies and locusts, speakin’ ruin. Peepin’ violent times and people gettin’ stupid. Freakin’ out inside, my treatment is the truest. Got a drink in my grip. Gotta drink to the dead! Not a drink just to sip…a lotta drinks to the head. I toast the moon under some mausoleum light, pale; disfigured face hidden well beneath the night’s veil. Titans ain’t shit. Matter fact, I find ‘em quite frail. Burning for the blind. Touch, the gust, ignite brail. Re-write history – no heroes or exes. Shift the whole nexus. Black hole suplexes.

[Hold the phone, it’s the Unholy Ghost.
And you say nothing is forever?!]
Track Name: Barabbas
Scales slither up, weave whispers in the orbit. Tree of life wither while the shifted sun forfeits. Mountains of Madness, distorted and amorphous, I scratch my head mortified, I thought I knew the chorus. Mad fickle. Fuck what you think of me. Touch mad topics through asphyxiated frequency. Speak on entropic and misanthropic indecency. Catapult necronomilluminati peacefully. I redefine “Let’s do this shit.” Blunts on Black Sabbath like we’re tryin’ to get Jerusalit. Lazy eye starin’ a hole to Zion while I gene splice poems to the pulses of the pylon. Call it what you will, I want the fruit that angels warn against. Simulate a serpent just to stimulate the born-agains. Mad shifty. Forecast: mad shitty. Head hung low, soul worth tree fitty. My truth look a little like it fits a little better in a ship-wreck scene. Captain Drunk Texting. Bat shit level unparalleled. At first I got sick now I’m back trying to pressure cook the carousel. Ah, hell. Untangle this stuck clown. Rip his ears off and tell him function without sound. Watch wide-eyed as tides rise up, down then compare ‘em to my moods and kindly get the fuck out!

Re-animated. Back to the basic wave I can handle, the way that I made it. Blasphemous basilisk master-craft capitalist. Symbiotic satellite that sacrifice the sacrilege. Identify identity crisis. Mice and men sippin’ on the blood of Christ, iceless. Who can spin redemption metaphors fastest? Berserker drunk as fuck truckin’ Road to Damascus. Walk four corners. Filthy Fuckin’ Rich. The horn that wakes the sleepers vs. the creepers in the ditch. Glorious. Battle lines drawn, tell the warriors. Blessed are the poor in spirit, so we’re victorious. We’ll be bound for the fountain. Kill beats and put it down with a bountiful poundin’. Many puffed pounds and weird sounds on the album but never doubt the devout when you’ve found ‘em. My bad. I’m not a decent person but truth is found in sacrifice of earthliness and purpose. Life is service. Can’t a dude just be the servant? Must a person truly die unto himself and feed the serpent?! It’s worthless. I see your banner and I snatch it. Leave a fortress lookin’ skeletal in malevolent fashion. Madness got ‘em struck like match sticks. Probable Cause Productions. Thank you, acid.

[Why can’t you let us have this?
If it were possible this cup could pass then I would ask it.
Caught up in the past, laughin’ last – that’s some sad shit.
And the mob yells, “Give us Barabbas!”]