[Curtain Call] [Soft organ. Applause loop. Echoed footsteps on a creaky stage.] Well that’s the show, darlings — that’s the sin parade. Hope you liked your taste of filth dressed up in marmalade. We danced through glass, made saints out of freaks, Sold confession in verses and spilled guts on the beat. We mocked the gods, kissed the devils, made virtue groan, Lit bonfires in chapels and called it home. If I bled on the mic, well, at least it shined, And if it stung your pride, then good — that means it mined. Remember the cries? "He’s too much, too loud!" From boardrooms, greenrooms, influencer clouds. But they all tuned in, couldn’t look away — Cause a mask with teeth still knows what to say. We pulled the strings, exposed the frauds, Showed that every pure heart’s paid by odds. That heroism sells, but only in fits, And every donation comes with benefits. We buried the lie in a velvet song, You clapped on beat while we proved you wrong. We asked where the love went — and got receipts, Danced in filth while the saints took seats. And me? I'm just the ringleader with one last bow, A head full of verses, a grin too proud. You booed, you wept, you hummed along — Even if you swore I got it all wrong. So go on — rewrite my words in a quote, Turn my breakdowns into coats. Call it art, call it edge, call it trash, call it tricks — But don’t pretend you weren’t hooked on the kicks. The lights go dim, the curtains drop — But the fire doesn’t end when the clapping stops. I'll leave you this echo, smeared in black lacquer: (He’ll be back.) So hang your shame in the dressing room hall — And don’t forget to fear me next time you hear a Satanic Panic curtain call. [Organ swell. Vinyl hiss. Final clap. Silence.]
