Hocus Cadabra Abraca Pocus

dark orchestral trap, industrial sludge metal, cinematic dark film score

[Verse 1: The Ossuary Awakening]
I’m the re-animated, de-capit-ated e-man-cip-ator,
Flowing like the Styx, a pre-calcu-lated e-vacu-ator.
S.J. is back, the heavens are sleepless, the reverence is needless,
Blessing the features of spectral creatures with tele-kinesis.
I raise the bar until the casket lid snaps,
I’m the master of the craft while the planet collapses.
I’m the Necro-mancer with the techno-answer, 
Dancing through the checkered pasture of the buried masters.
My metacarpals click-clack, a rhythmic riddle in the middle,
I’m playing "Stairway to Heaven" on a brittle human fiddle.
Hocus Cadabra—the focus is captured by local disasters,
I’m the Holy Ghost writer, literally—the vocal is past-tense.
I’m the spine of the divine, the vine of the wine,
The sign of the time, the crime of the mind.

[Hook: Anthemic / Heavy Bass / Choral Overtones]
Hocus Cadabra, Abraca Pocus,
The Savior is skeletal, lose all your focus.
From the valley of dry bones, the King has arisen,
Breaking the ribs of his own holy prison.
Magical mayhem, the gospel of dust,
In the wand and the nail, it’s a matter of trust.
(Hocus... Pocus... The dead are among us.)

[Verse 2: The Alchemist’s Cadence]
They call it black magic, I call it track havoc,
A graph-ic re-action to past magic tactics.
I walk on the water of Lethe,
I don't need a lung or a bronchial column to breathe.
I’m post-mortal, ghost-portal, most choral, host-warhol,
Painting the shrine with the brine of a lost moral.
I’m handing out pieces of my mind to the congregation,
While I conjure the thunder of a dead civilization.
I mortalize the formal lies, organize the dormant eyes,
Scrutinize the human size, and eulogize the vocal prize.
I’m the alpha and omega, the Alcatraz of Sega,
A virtual miracle, lyrical Vegas.
Abracadabra—"I create as I speak,"
But the frame is all calcium, the flesh of the word is weak.
I’m the rabbit in the hat that ate the magician,
The premonition of the ghost in the nuclear fission.

[Breakdown: The Bone-Box Beatbox]
[(Vocal Play: Rhythmic rattling of teeth and bone sounds)]
[Click-clack... Ossis... Click-clack... Spiritus...]
[(Music stops—Heavy distorted bass drops back in)]

[Verse 3: The Ritual of the Ribcage]
I’m the cryptic-tech, inter-met, architect of dis-connect,
A frame with the melanin of starlight in my intellect.
I’m casting a fast-thing, a drastic re-casting,
Of masses in ashes with magic everlasting.
I pocus the focus, a locust in lotus,
The low-cust-ody not-ice of bogus proph-et potus.
I resurrect the dialect, disconnect the incorrect,
And circumsect the architect to genuflect and intersect.
I’m turning water into ether, leave 'em shaking in a seizure,
I’m a believer in the fever of a grim soul-reaper.
I cross the line, toss the wine, boss the shrine,
And gloss the spine of Father Time with holy phosphor-line.
My magic isn't tragic, it’s a math-ic poly-graph-ic,
Cinem-at-ic, auto-mat-ic, blood-on-the-static traffic.
Watch me pull a rabbit out a ribcage, 
But the rabbit is a habit of a savage in a glib-age.

[Verse 4: The Graveyard Waltz]
I’m the hocus in the smoke-us, the choker in the joker,
A gambler playing poker with a red-hot iron-stoker.
I conjure the honor of the goner in the corner,
A transformer, brain-stormer, hell-warmer performer.
I’m Abracadabra, the candela-bra of the cadaver,
I gather the lather of the rather blather patter.
I marrow the arrow, I harrow the sparrow,
My pathway is narrow, my shadow is fallow.
Breaking the bread of the damned,
With a severed hand and a desert of blackened sand.
I’m walking on nails like they’re water,
The magical author of the lamb led to the slaughter.
I multiply the loaves and the fishes, 
But the loaves are stones and the fishes are vicious wishes.
I disappear in a cloud of sulfur and scorn,
The holiest horror that was ever un-born.

[Verse 5: The Compound Cataclysm]
I’m the meta-physic, never-visit, clever-ex-quisite,
S.J. weather-the-blizzard, whither-the-wizard.
I’m levitating, hesitating, never-stating, devastating,
Generating, vibrating, highly-concentrating, liberating.
My Hocus is ferocious, atrocious, precocious,
The dosage of gnosis is neuro-diagnosis.
I’m Abraca-pocus, the nebulous nucleus,
The scrupulous, ludicrous, ghost-of-the-mutinous.
I’m the incantation of the revelation of the nation,
The vibration of the station of the mental migration.
I’m the bone-king, the stone-king, the throne-king, the lone-king,
The phone-ring in the zone of the dark-tone-sing.

[Verse 6: The Miracles of Marrow]
Watch the sleight of hand in the land of the damned,
I command the sand to expand the brand of the man.
I’m the magician with the vision of the nuclear collision,
The precision of the fission in the prison of derision.
I heal the blind with the grind,

4996/7500

[Intro: Orchestral Doom-Trap] (Vocal Play: Whisper-stuttering) Ho-cus... Ca-dabra... Abra-ca... Pocus. The ribcage is a harp for the ghost notes. The tombstone’s a stage for the soapbox. Watch the calcium Christ do the moonwalk. [Verse 1: The Ossuary Awakening] I’m the re-animated, de-capit-ated e-man-cip-ator, Flowing like the Styx, a pre-calcu-lated e-vacu-ator. S.J. is back, the heavens are sleepless, the reverence is needless, Blessing the features of spectral creatures with tele-kinesis. I raise the bar until the casket lid snaps, I’m the master of the craft while the planet collapses. I’m the Necro-mancer with the techno-answer, Dancing through the checkered pasture of the buried masters. My metacarpals click-clack, a rhythmic riddle in the middle, I’m playing "Stairway to Heaven" on a brittle human fiddle. Hocus Cadabra—the focus is captured by local disasters, I’m the Holy Ghost writer, literally—the vocal is past-tense. I’m the spine of the divine, the vine of the wine, The sign of the time, the crime of the mind. [Hook: Anthemic / Heavy Bass / Choral Overtones] Hocus Cadabra, Abraca Pocus, The Savior is skeletal, lose all your focus. From the valley of dry bones, the King has arisen, Breaking the ribs of his own holy prison. Magical mayhem, the gospel of dust, In the wand and the nail, it’s a matter of trust. (Hocus... Pocus... The dead are among us.) [Verse 2: The Alchemist’s Cadence] They call it black magic, I call it track havoc, A graph-ic re-action to past magic tactics. I walk on the water of Lethe, I don't need a lung or a bronchial column to breathe. I’m post-mortal, ghost-portal, most choral, host-warhol, Painting the shrine with the brine of a lost moral. I’m handing out pieces of my mind to the congregation, While I conjure the thunder of a dead civilization. I mortalize the formal lies, organize the dormant eyes, Scrutinize the human size, and eulogize the vocal prize. I’m the alpha and omega, the Alcatraz of Sega, A virtual miracle, lyrical Vegas. Abracadabra—"I create as I speak," But the frame is all calcium, the flesh of the word is weak. I’m the rabbit in the hat that ate the magician, The premonition of the ghost in the nuclear fission. [Breakdown: The Bone-Box Beatbox] [(Vocal Play: Rhythmic rattling of teeth and bone sounds)] [Click-clack... Ossis... Click-clack... Spiritus...] [(Music stops—Heavy distorted bass drops back in)] [Verse 3: The Ritual of the Ribcage] I’m the cryptic-tech, inter-met, architect of dis-connect, A frame with the melanin of starlight in my intellect. I’m casting a fast-thing, a drastic re-casting, Of masses in ashes with magic everlasting. I pocus the focus, a locust in lotus, The low-cust-ody not-ice of bogus proph-et potus. I resurrect the dialect, disconnect the incorrect, And circumsect the architect to genuflect and intersect. I’m turning water into ether, leave 'em shaking in a seizure, I’m a believer in the fever of a grim soul-reaper. I cross the line, toss the wine, boss the shrine, And gloss the spine of Father Time with holy phosphor-line. My magic isn't tragic, it’s a math-ic poly-graph-ic, Cinem-at-ic, auto-mat-ic, blood-on-the-static traffic. Watch me pull a rabbit out a ribcage, But the rabbit is a habit of a savage in a glib-age. [Verse 4: The Graveyard Waltz] I’m the hocus in the smoke-us, the choker in the joker, A gambler playing poker with a red-hot iron-stoker. I conjure the honor of the goner in the corner, A transformer, brain-stormer, hell-warmer performer. I’m Abracadabra, the candela-bra of the cadaver, I gather the lather of the rather blather patter. I marrow the arrow, I harrow the sparrow, My pathway is narrow, my shadow is fallow. Breaking the bread of the damned, With a severed hand and a desert of blackened sand. I’m walking on nails like they’re water, The magical author of the lamb led to the slaughter. I multiply the loaves and the fishes, But the loaves are stones and the fishes are vicious wishes. I disappear in a cloud of sulfur and scorn, The holiest horror that was ever un-born. [Verse 5: The Compound Cataclysm] I’m the meta-physic, never-visit, clever-ex-quisite, S.J. weather-the-blizzard, whither-the-wizard. I’m levitating, hesitating, never-stating, devastating, Generating, vibrating, highly-concentrating, liberating. My Hocus is ferocious, atrocious, precocious, The dosage of gnosis is neuro-diagnosis. I’m Abraca-pocus, the nebulous nucleus, The scrupulous, ludicrous, ghost-of-the-mutinous. I’m the incantation of the revelation of the nation, The vibration of the station of the mental migration. I’m the bone-king, the stone-king, the throne-king, the lone-king, The phone-ring in the zone of the dark-tone-sing. [Verse 6: The Miracles of Marrow] Watch the sleight of hand in the land of the damned, I command the sand to expand the brand of the man. I’m the magician with the vision of the nuclear collision, The precision of the fission in the prison of derision. I heal the blind with the grind,

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