(Vinyl crackle fades in over a thick, pitch-bent sub-bass drone that shakes the floorboards. A slow, haunting acoustic picking pattern starts to loop, sounding isolated and thin. Suddenly, an eerie banjo melody ticks into a rigid 76 BPM tempo, accented by the weeping, sinister slide of an evil pedal steel guitar. A raspy, country-twang male voice whispers darkly into the microphone.) (Intro) (Yeah... out in that red dirt country...) (Coop gone cold...) (Something evil in the chicken wire...) (Watch out...) (Verse 1) [A slow, dragging Memphis trap beat violently drops with a heavy, bone-rattling 808 bassline] [Distorted chicken-scratch banjo fills punctuate the rhythm on every off-beat] Moonshine dripping in the Choctaw mud, Nesting box painted in a dark green flood. Pazuzu sitting on a high-back perch, Gravelly cluck like a burning church. Feathers standing up, thermometer drop, Icy wind blowing through the chicken coop top. Spinning that neck three-sixty degrees, Vomiting that cracked corn, down to her knees. Old man farmer had to call the priest, Father Cluck stepped in to face the beast. (Chorus) [Sinister synth lines weave tightly under the eerie banjo loop] [The weeping pedal steel guitar cries out loud in the stereo field] The power of the flock compels you now! Devil in the feathers and the dirt, somehow. Hear the stylophone beep, hear the sub-bass groan, Eggsorcist sitting on a corrupted throne. (The power compels you...) Scratching in the hellfire, blood on the beak, Weeping steel guitar making the floorboards creak. (Verse 2) [The beat shifts into a slow, club-heavy street sound with dragging trap drums] [A reverse piano echoes in the background, adding a disorienting, haunting atmosphere] Father Cluck walking with a heavy-set stride, Holy water mixed with apple cider vinegar inside. Flicking on the straw, but the hen start to float, Demonic human Latin coming out of her throat. Possessed horror in the deep-fried South, Green slime dripping from a jagged-toothed mouth. Clucking out a curse, yeah it's wicked and grim: "Your mama scratches grain in the devil's own den!" Booming 808 rattle through the chicken wire fence, This gothic trap atmosphere is getting intense. (Bridge - Terrifying Cinematic Breakdown) [The dragging trap drums violently cut out. The vinyl crackle thickens over the sub-bass drone] [Spoken Word - Low, raspy, characterful whisper right against the microphone capsule] Look at her... Perched up high where the shadows stretch. That ain't bird flu. That's a debt being collected. [Musically: A reverse piano chord swells backwards, building extreme tension. Sinister sound design layers in—the deep, distorted sound of leather wings flapping, mixed with a high-pitched, metallic banjo scrape that sounds like iron dragging across wire.] [Vocals: Delivering a slow, rhythmically dragged Southern Gothic chant] The wood is splitting... The straw is cold... The devil came down for a piece of the flock. No prayer in the valley gonna stop the clock. [Musically: An intense cinematic rise starts climbing rapidly. A stylized, electronic Memphis rhythm stutters faster and faster. Suddenly, a sound effect of a heavy wooden coop door slamming shut echoes. The possessed hen lets out a deep, pitch-dropped, unnatural roar.] [Vocals: Escalating in intensity, matching the rising tension of the sound design] Her eyes turned black, her comb turned grey, The Lord can’t save this coop today! Fathers and roosters, get down on your knees— SHE'S SPINNING! [Musically: Extreme stop-start dynamics. Total, dead silence for one crisp second. Then—] [The bone-rattling 808 bass bomb drops with maximum force, slamming back into the slow, dragging Memphis trap rhythm] (Post-Drop Double-Time Verse) [The bone-rattling 808 bass bomb drops with maximum force. The dragging street beat suddenly doubles in speed into an aggressive, hyper-fast Memphis flow. The raspy country vocals turn sharp, rapid-fire, and breathless, cutting through the distorted chicken-scratch banjo fills.] Spitting that venom she up in the rafters, I’m packing the Scripture, I’m chasing the bastards, The vinegar dripping, the flock is afflicted, The demonic chicken is twisted and wicked! Flipping the perch and she tearing the wire, The feathers are flying, we lighting the fire, You talking that Latin, you clicking and clacking, But Father is back and he’s ready for action! Get out of the pullet, get out of the coop, I’m mixing the holy water in the soup, You shaking the stable, you rocking the nest, But I got the cross and the vest on my chest! The sub-bass is hitting, the 808 split it, The devil is in it, I finish it, quit it, You scratching the hellfire down in the dirt, But the power of Christ gonna make it all hurt! (Transition into Outro) [The rapid-fire drums abruptly slam back down into the slow, dragging, heavy club rhythm. The vocals drop back into the slow, raspy country drawl.] Eggsorcist... Out in the sticks... Keep your eyes on the coop...
