1. |
Inch of Dirt
01:54
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Inch of Dirt:
Who needs those shallow graves,
We live in a wooded-area.
Six-feet is all the rage,
But an inch of dirt's the next hysteria.
An inch of dirt is on your face,
An inch of dirt keeps you in place.
There's seldom searching,
But a surplus of recovery.
Trespass, a freeman missing.
A double-cross, but a single loss.
No more self-policing,
Revolver, you're thinking you're boss.
An inch of dirt is on your face,
An inch of dirt keeps you in place.
There's seldom searching,
But a surplus of recovery.
Shotgun, shovel, shut-up!
*Mixed and mastered by: Roger Swan @ Hallowed Sound Studio
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2. |
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I Wanna Cook You Mexican, Tonight:
Sombrero full of Doritos,
I wanna dip your fingers and nose,
No need to bring an appetite.
Bring a bottle, anything that you wish,
Human epidermis, my favourite dish,
Sauteed onions would go nice with your wrist.
I wanna cook you Mexican, tonight...BABY!
Cayenne on your inner thighs,
Two shots tequila and you never tell lies,
Pan-fried well before you die.
I wanna cook you Mexican, tonight...BABY!
You and rice on my plate,
Looking better than my last Asian date,
Even Morty for the scraps he can't wait.
Peligro senorita.
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3. |
I Hate The Summer
02:36
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I Hate The Summer:
Mercury bubbles inside glass tubes.
Kootenay summer, spend three months nude.
Droughts in the streams, the beaches they look pretty.
90 days and counting, nothing below 30.
Forest floor is like a tinder box.
Spark a butt, watch the fuckin' match talk.
Coughing ash like you got a cigar habit.
Sleep dependent on your window A.C. unit.
Navigating rivers on anything but a boat.
Air mattress, bike tire, fuck I think it should float.
Lobster-ginger-head, the freckles they're on neck.
Post-morning shower, we'll bathe in SPF.
Forest floor is like a tinder box.
Spark a butt, watch the fuckin' match talk.
Coughing ash like you got a cigar habit.
Sleep dependent on your window A.C. unit.
No shirt, no shoes, no service.
Three terms make me hauntingly nervous.
Fire ban on, we curse the thunder.
I hate, I hate, I hate the summer.
Forest floor is like a tinder box.
Spark a butt, watch the fuckin' match talk.
Coughing ash like you got a cigar habit.
Sleep dependent on your window A.C. unit.
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4. |
Piggy Palace
02:30
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Piggy Palace:
Robert Pickton had a farm,
A simple mind that could do harm.
He trolled and traipsed out on skid row,
Seeking-out ladies that no one would know.
A quiet loner, nothing to suspect,
A 14-acre, junkie sect.
Countless raves, drugs to ingest,
Now you're gonna stay there for the pigs to digest.
Hastings and Main,
To wasted in pain,
Heading to that piggy palace again.
Vancouver's, downtown lonely east-side,
Turned out to be better than going for that ride.
He wanted to snuff an even fifty,
A nice round number sure sounded nifty.
Until a friend with one big mouth,
Turned police on Robert, then things went south.
An undercover got Pickton to chat,
Some of this, and some of that.
Now jailed for life, never to be missed,
Still the question still lingers, is pork your favourite dish?
Hastings and Main,
To wasted in pain,
Heading to that piggy palace again.
Vancouver's, downtown lonely east-side,
Turned out to be better than going for that ride.
Go for that ride,
Too many have died,
I wish that fucker could fry.
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