You come to swallow
Everything from swords to shit
All for the master piss
Feel like I died
One thousand times
Feel I was made for loving death
I remember good times
The joyful passing of days
Wish that I could make this better
I see the end of ways
This sword it seems to follow death
It cries for pus and blood and dust
Go on with your pity
Just don't let me know
Your beacon larder suffer dumb
supported by 10 fans who also own “Meilleurs Voeux, Pute!”
They really don't make them like this anymore. Lo-fi pop hits drenched under layers of four-track tape noise, weirdo collage trips, Casio beats and mangled guitar shred. Lars Gotrich