(Verse 1)
Choked up on battery acid hallucinations,
Cemetery mutts howling from beneath the old floorboards,
Blood dries on the pillow, ink crawls through the veins,
I cross out each Sunday, box every filth-stained regret.
The saints are shrieking from under the tiles,
Mom’s ghost pouring bleach in the bathwater,
Fists stay buried in pockets, one finger stroking the blade,
Every word tastes like cold grave dust.
(Verse 2)
Mastema’s eyes flicker from the gutter’s reflection,
Split coins glinting with spoiled resurrections,
He hands me a ledger, pages tacky with hunger,
Demands I pay out what’s festering under my tongue.
Night’s a fresh contract, each whisper a plea,
He’s humming dead psalms beneath my rotten teeth for free,
Reflection is twitching, desperate to vanish,
But Mastema’s ticking off failures and the darkness is endless.
(Chorus)
I beg for mercy, but the choir is bone and rot,
Candles burn black in a chapel strangled by weeds,
Mastema sits grinning on a throne of unpaid debts,
Tallying the bargains I tried to bury and leave.
His fingers trace scars where the daylight won’t reach,
King of my cravings, lord of the least,
I’m clawing at silence in a world that won’t sleep,
The angels are watching, but they’re buried too deep.
(Verse 3)
Prayers fall like receipts, soaked in spit and cheap bourbon,
I stumble backward through the years, clinging to threads,
Every grave is a mirror, every mirror a threat,
Scratch out the history—he just sharpens the blade.
He drags up the secrets, lays them out on cold dirt,
Turns hope into splinters, every memory to hurt,
No forgiveness waiting, no exit to run,
Just the steady drumbeat of my pulse coming undone.
(Bridge)
Tonight I’m stripped raw before the tallyman’s throne,
Every false belief, every guilt I’ve outgrown,
He lifts up my shadow—ruined, writhing, untrue—
I see the same crooked smile, and know I’m through.
Let the ledger ignite, let the bones turn to dust,
Let the last word be silence, let the silence combust,
I traded away flesh, traded thought and last breath,
To the king of the scraps when you bargain with death.
(Chorus/Outro)
I beg for mercy, but the choir is bone and rot,
Candles burn black in a chapel strangled by weeds,
Mastema’s still laughing as the dawn fails to rise,
Counting the endings behind feral, lidless eyes.
His fingers entwine, and the world splits apart—
Rotmouth dissolves, but Mastema keeps my heart.