Harvest Floor

(Hypnotic 98 BPM boom-bap pocket kicks in. A thick, dripping sub-bass line drops. Faint foley sound of dry corn husks rubbing together right on the beat. Eerie, detuned music box melody floats over the top.) 

Thick burlap tied with a rough twine knot

Standing guard over everything the summer forgot

The corn husks are whispering a warning in the breeze

While the frost starts settling on the apple trees

I’ve been stuffed with straw and left out in the rain

Watching the crows pick apart the remaining grain

But midnight is hitting the ninety-eight beat

And I’m finally stepping on my own two feet 

Welcome down to the harvest floor

We aren’t keeping track of the seasons anymore

Dry straw shifting to the dripping sub-bass

With a blank expression painted on my face

The keys are detuned and the rhythm is heavy

As the midnight shadows slowly start to steady 

Hear that rustle in the rows? That’s a midnight stride

There is nowhere left for a skeptic to hide

A crisp rim-shot sounds like a snapping stalk

While the shadow vocal starts to mimic my talk

You thought I was a dummy hanging on a wooden post

But tonight I’m playing the grandfather ghost

Button eyes staring through the middle of the field

Forcing everything inside of you to finally yield 

Welcome down to the harvest floor

We aren’t keeping track of the seasons anymore

Dry straw shifting to the dripping sub-bass

With a blank expression painted on my face

The keys are detuned and the rhythm is heavy

As the midnight shadows slowly start to steady 

You’re dropping your car keys, you’re losing your breath

In a field full of things that look cozy with death

The mud on your boots is a hundred pounds deep

While the rest of the county is fast asleep

I like how you stumble, I like how you stare

At the sudden perception of chill in the air

It’s an effortless cool, it’s a high-fashion fright

And you’re the main guest on the guestlist tonight 

Welcome down to the harvest floor

We aren’t keeping track of the seasons anymore

Dry straw shifting to the dripping sub-bass

With a blank expression painted on my face

The keys are detuned and the rhythm is heavy

As the midnight shadows slowly start to steady 

The moon is a crescent, a blade in the sky

And you’re realizing now that you shouldn’t have stopped by

No panic, no shouting, just keep it all low

Enjoy the finale of the October show

The shadow vocal wraps right around your neck

As we take a final stroll through the final wreck

A slow-motion thriller, a beautiful trap

And the distance between us is starting to snap 

(The sub-bass drops out entirely. Percussion reduces to a single crisp rim-shot and the faint sound of wood creaking.)

No blood in the veins, just autumn debris

But I’m moving with an effortless, bending degree

You can run for the fence, you can run for the road

But the harvest is a heavy, unchanging code

(Main Vocal whispers near the mic, completely dry)

The field belongs to me now. 

(Full instrumentation slams back in—heaviest sub-bass of the track)

Welcome down to the harvest floor

We aren’t keeping track of the seasons anymore

Dry straw shifting to the dripping sub-bass

With a blank expression painted on my face

The keys are detuned and the rhythm is heavy

As the midnight shadows slowly start to steady 

(The out-of-tune music box melody slows down, warping in pitch. The heavy sub-bass throbs one last time, cutting off sharply on the final beat.)

Harvest time.

Harvest floor.

(The faint sound of a single crow calling out in the distance fades into static.)