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2187 A.D.- Syn-aesthetic Cyborg 3253 is created. He is among the first line of prototypes that will aide the World Government in their resolve to capture and imprison those who create music (in violation of the Sec. 75, Article 23 of the Audio Subversion Law of 2170). The cyborgs are given audio recognition technology in the form of eyes that can identify sounds, and their combinations, as either accepted music or a violation. Anything unregistered by the World Government is indicated through red tint.
lyrics
Verse 1:
Sprung forth from the ashes, earthquakes seizing tectonic plates disaster,
Abuse of power, mastered his masters,
Stability small traced and straight faced laughter,
Continued journey on paths lined with broken glass,
Partial particle fission blast,
Calculating rage filled caloric expenses with linear math,
Sodium filled blood turns to salt and forms tracks,
Coagulated pools create iron cell walls,
Through which tinted windows and ceilings light falls,
In turn a biological connection occurs,
Synthesizing the desensitizing into fuel to burn,
Utilizing the scythe-like precision and numbers which he learned,
Facing injustice, into action he is spurned
Chorus:
Looming conscious always hidden,
Fortress overrun security measures overridden,
Alloy angels artificial derision,
Island mental conditioned living,
Judgement rendered twisted sentence.
Verse 2:
Touch him? Maybe, Maybach safe track,
Man made lakes, man made mistakes perfection always comes with a catch.
22 to be exact, no clucks to go with the clacks,
Do this for Kix, put water in my Smacks,
Laughing gas blast,
Why so serious? Relax,
No rear view with 100 on the dash,
Racing towards the future, escaping from the past,
Razor-leaf, Hydro-Pump, Flamethrower, Slash,
Cutting the murderous intent with a knife,
Lopping off heads with one fatal swipe,
Swoop, thud
Out of my lane tapping in the rain, Krumping in the mud,
Munch rug, flush drugs, and drive off in a dud,
Haters gassed up and the swag is a hybrid,
Don't care how nice your Nikes are, or the model of the car you arrive in,
Think I'm Doc Ock the way the shots are flying,
Create a golden organic flow similar to the timin',
That the Mayans,
Use,
Slick talkers equipped with silver tongues,
Know not, that the minerals they abuse drown out the bells that are rung,
Warnings gone unheeded what's done is done,
Wicker nigganoid golems have begun
To run,
Amuck, stuck, amongst the herd of hope drunk, lame duck
Leaders, that lower worms of destiny into pools of bottom feeders.
Said Practitioner:
one down
all to go?
where am I?
where are we going?
down.
to the depths.
we are going to the depths.
and i have found them,
the depths.
i have found them all.
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