The Third Time

Style: Dark Cyber-Industrial / Aggressive Drift Phonk Hybrid

Tempo: 130 BPM

Sound: Distorted sawtooth bass, electronic cowbells, heavy 808 kick.

Vocals: Cold, flat monotone close-mic tracking, low-octave duplication. No yelling.

(Sound: Distorted 808 kick thuds. Cold electronic cowbells tap out a fast rhythm.)

(Vocal: Flat baritone whisper)

The first time I saw it... I thought I was gonna die.

The second time around, I didn't even ask why.

But by the third time, the truth was looking back...

They aren’t running from the badges, they just want my tracks.

(Sound: Relentless buzzing sawtooth bassline and aggressive drift-phonk drum loops.)

One-thirteen Thursday, finishing the warehouse line,

Cutting through the loading docks to save a little time.

Rain on the gravel, smoke in the air,

A flash in the darkness, a body sitting there.

Vincent Caruso holding all the strings,

Shaking hands with mayors and the neighborhood kings.

The man on his knees began to beg and cry...

"It's not what you took, Tommy, it's who you let inside."

(Sound: Drums drop out. Rapid industrial metallic clicking builds speed.)

Ha, ho, he, hum... Hear that federal engine run.

Uh, ah, oh, um... Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.

(Sound: Full electronic distortion. Heavy industrial beats slam down with cowbell accents.)

Ho, ha, hum, hi, Look the shadow right in the eye.

Fe, fa, fo, fum, Beat the rhythm on the lawman's drum.

Ha, ho, he, hum, Watch the boundary start to bend.

Uh, ah, oh, um, Running from the ones who were supposed to defend.

(Sound: Drums transition to a menacing electronic stomp. Distorted bass throbs on the beat.)

Note on the welcome mat, photo by the door,

Two days of static sleeping on the apartment floor.

The suits walked in with the silver badges bright,

Said they needed a witness to turn on the night.

But there's a leak in the ceiling, rot in the floor,

The call is coming from inside the door.

Agent Cole standing by the window pane...

With a cracked black watch that I saw in the rain.

(Sound: Harsh electronic glitch. A cold, echoing payphone dial tone hums, deeply distorted.)

I threw the chair, I broke the glass,

Running through the corridor, moving too fast.

Payphone standing in the freezing cold,

Dialed the line for the truth to be told.

"Brooks, he was there, he's working for the boss!"

Silence on the receiver... counting up the loss.

I asked about my girl, if she was safe and sound...

She said, "Marcus, we never sent a soul to that town."

Ho, ha, hum, hi, Look the shadow right in the eye.

Fe, fa, fo, fum, Beat the rhythm on the lawman's drum.

Ha, ho, he, hum, Watch the boundary start to bend.

Uh, ah, oh, um, Running from the ones who were supposed to defend.

(Sound: Music cuts instantly on a sharp cutoff. Raw ground-loop hum remains.)

(Vocal: Flat, deeply pitch-dropped whisper)

They never sent anyone.

They just wanted me to talk.