Post Traumatic Shart Disorder

Welsh accent rap, acoustic hip-hop, boom-bap, melancholic acoustic guitar, satirical urban poetry

[Verse 1]
We’re sitting in a circle in the hall of Saint Jude
Trying to process the sight of that semi-solid food
There’s Dai from the bass section, he’s shaking in his seat
He can’t even look at a wrap or a bit of minced meat
The therapist is nodding, she’s got a clipboard and a pen
She says "Tell me ‘bout the linen, tell me where and tell me when"
I tell her ‘bout the silence, the horrific, heavy hush
Followed by the sound of a biological rush
I see the white cargo shorts every time I close my eyes
Expanding like a galaxy of terrible surprise
It wasn't just a moment, it’s a permanent scar
I can smell it in the carpet, I can smell it in the car

[Chorus]
[Beat Drop]
[Thumping acoustic rhythm with a soulful, sad undertone]
Oh, we’re suffering from Post Traumatic Shart Disorder
Our sanity is hanging on a very thin border
One giant bloom on a canvas of white
Now we’re waking up screaming in the middle of the night
(The saturation!)
(The televised shame!)
The Valleys will never be quite the same

[Verse 2]
The hyper-viscous imagery is burned into my brain
The way the moisture traveled like a heavy summer rain
Capillary action on a hundred-percent thread
I should have been singing, but I wanted to be dead
Every time I see a Rorschach test, I only see one thing
A wet and heavy blossom making everything go 'ping'
I went to buy some napkins at the local Tesco store
I saw a white display and I collapsed upon the floor
The texture was an insult, the viscosity was vile
A Four K masterpiece of a catastrophic style
Sixty Nine Million people saw the leakage and the dread
While we were stuck behind him, wishing we were in our bed

[Chorus]
Oh, we’re suffering from Post Traumatic Shart Disorder
Our sanity is hanging on a very thin border
One giant bloom on a canvas of white
Now we’re waking up screaming in the middle of the night
(It’s on the replay!)
(It’s in the cloud!)
The silence was heavy, but the shart was too loud

[Bridge]
[Guitar slows to a single, haunting note]
[Whispered, rhythmic delivery]
Is it humid in here?
Does anyone else feel a... a warmth?
I saw a man eating a chocolate eclair yesterday. 
I had to be sedated. 
The way the cream met the pastry... it was too similar. 
The physics were too familiar. 
The Bishop hasn't spoken since. 
He just sits in the cathedral, staring at the marble. 
Waiting for the stain that never goes away.
(So white. So very, very white.)

[Verse 3]
We’ve tried the guided imagery, we’ve tried the herbal tea
But you can’t un-see a shart on national T V
The BBC has archived it, it’s there for all of time
The pinnacle of failure, the rhythm and the rhyme
Of a man in cargo shorts who thought that he was slick
Until his lower intestine played a nasty little trick
We’re the choir of the damned, the witnesses of gloom
Standing in the slipstream of a moist and heavy doom
So pass the biscuits ‘round, and let the tears just fall
The Great White Stain is written on the community hall wall

[Outro]
[Acoustic guitar fades out with a slow, tired strum]
I think I’m making progress.
I managed to look at a marshmallow today.
Only for a second. 
Then I vomited.
(Progress, mate.)
(Baby steps.)
Does anyone have a wet wipe?
Just... just in case.
[Final soft tap on the guitar body]
[End]

3572/7500

[Intro] [Sound of a metal chair scraping on a lino floor] [A soft, mournful acoustic guitar riff begins] (Alright everyone, let's just breathe.) (In through the nose... actually, maybe through the mouth.) My name is Keith, and I was the third tenor. I haven't looked at a white van the same way since. (Welcome, Keith.) [Verse 1] We’re sitting in a circle in the hall of Saint Jude Trying to process the sight of that semi-solid food There’s Dai from the bass section, he’s shaking in his seat He can’t even look at a wrap or a bit of minced meat The therapist is nodding, she’s got a clipboard and a pen She says "Tell me ‘bout the linen, tell me where and tell me when" I tell her ‘bout the silence, the horrific, heavy hush Followed by the sound of a biological rush I see the white cargo shorts every time I close my eyes Expanding like a galaxy of terrible surprise It wasn't just a moment, it’s a permanent scar I can smell it in the carpet, I can smell it in the car [Chorus] [Beat Drop] [Thumping acoustic rhythm with a soulful, sad undertone] Oh, we’re suffering from Post Traumatic Shart Disorder Our sanity is hanging on a very thin border One giant bloom on a canvas of white Now we’re waking up screaming in the middle of the night (The saturation!) (The televised shame!) The Valleys will never be quite the same [Verse 2] The hyper-viscous imagery is burned into my brain The way the moisture traveled like a heavy summer rain Capillary action on a hundred-percent thread I should have been singing, but I wanted to be dead Every time I see a Rorschach test, I only see one thing A wet and heavy blossom making everything go 'ping' I went to buy some napkins at the local Tesco store I saw a white display and I collapsed upon the floor The texture was an insult, the viscosity was vile A Four K masterpiece of a catastrophic style Sixty Nine Million people saw the leakage and the dread While we were stuck behind him, wishing we were in our bed [Chorus] Oh, we’re suffering from Post Traumatic Shart Disorder Our sanity is hanging on a very thin border One giant bloom on a canvas of white Now we’re waking up screaming in the middle of the night (It’s on the replay!) (It’s in the cloud!) The silence was heavy, but the shart was too loud [Bridge] [Guitar slows to a single, haunting note] [Whispered, rhythmic delivery] Is it humid in here? Does anyone else feel a... a warmth? I saw a man eating a chocolate eclair yesterday. I had to be sedated. The way the cream met the pastry... it was too similar. The physics were too familiar. The Bishop hasn't spoken since. He just sits in the cathedral, staring at the marble. Waiting for the stain that never goes away. (So white. So very, very white.) [Verse 3] We’ve tried the guided imagery, we’ve tried the herbal tea But you can’t un-see a shart on national T V The BBC has archived it, it’s there for all of time The pinnacle of failure, the rhythm and the rhyme Of a man in cargo shorts who thought that he was slick Until his lower intestine played a nasty little trick We’re the choir of the damned, the witnesses of gloom Standing in the slipstream of a moist and heavy doom So pass the biscuits ‘round, and let the tears just fall The Great White Stain is written on the community hall wall [Outro] [Acoustic guitar fades out with a slow, tired strum] I think I’m making progress. I managed to look at a marshmallow today. Only for a second. Then I vomited. (Progress, mate.) (Baby steps.) Does anyone have a wet wipe? Just... just in case. [Final soft tap on the guitar body] [End]

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