[Intro] Yo, take a look at the history books – I think one of the illustrations has escaped. This guy is dressed like Death's emotional support pigeon. And he's dragging a nine-string guitar along to the apocalypse. [Verse 1] Look at this bastard, decked out in plague-doctor gear, His beak practically reaches the edge of the stage. Leather from forehead to feet, Like a BDSM crow that got lost while trick-or-treating. Huge hat, like: "Watch out, my master," Then he plugs in an eight-string guitar and looks bored to death. You come stumbling in dramatically, like Death has arrived – Nah, "Big Bird" discovered My Chemical Romance and somehow fucking survived. Buckles and straps everywhere, layer upon layer, You look like a cursed suitcase that learned how to write songs. Those shades are so dark – can you even see a thing? Or are you hiding from the shame of that dropped F# tuning? You creep through the mist like Death himself, But your coat has more layers than your damn mix. Your whole look screams "17th-century calamity," While you're alone in your room practicing palm mutes. [Pre-Chorus] Zero-zero-zero-one Oh shit, here we go! Zero-zero-zero-one Yeah, we get it, man! [Chorus] Doctor, doctor, what's the diagnosis? Terminal chugging with riff psychosis. You're swinging that eight-string guitar like you're really going for it, But you've been playing the same four frets for a week. CHUG-CHUG-CHUG – TING! "Bro, the rhythm is complex!" Yeah, your time signature needs a GPS. You aren't curing plagues, you aren't saving souls, You're just writing Zero-Zero-Zero-1 all over the place. [Verse 2] Now he won't stop going on about djent like he invented it himself, Bro, Meshuggah called – they want you to stop explaining. "It's polymetric!" Cool. "The accents disappear!" Yeah, but all that nonsense doesn't add any groove. You're counting ONE-two-three-ONE-two-three-four, While everyone else is looking for the damn exit. A riff in 19/8 time over drums in 11/8 time – Somewhere, a music professor has just ascended to heaven. Your guitar is tuned lower than a sunken submarine, the bridge cables are dangling off your damn neck. You're chugging an open string like it owes you money: DUN-DUN-DUN—DUN—DUN-DUN-DUN—SKRRR—KLAK. Then you look at the crowd: "Did you guys get the subdivision?" No, but I saw your drummer going absolutely wild. Nine strings, six pedals, three noise gates in a row— Just so a damn forklift sounds halfway in time. You say: "It's about the space!" while you keep playing the same note, like Morse code sent by a stinking goat. Your breakdown finally hits; nobody moves in the mosh pit – We weren't waiting for the drop. We thought you'd forgotten how to count the damn thing. [Pre-Chorus] Zero-zero-zero-one Asshole, play a chord! Zero-zero-zero-one Your guitar neck is bored! [Chorus] Doctor, doctor, what’s the diagnosis? Chronic drum beat with riff psychosis. You’re swinging that nine-string guitar like you’re summoning hell, but it sounds like a washing machine falling down a well. CHUG-CHUG-CHUG—TING! "Bro, feel the groove!" You’ve been on the same damn fret since the second verse. You don’t cure plagues, you don’t save souls, you just prescribe zero-zero-zero-one. [Bridge – Spoken/Rap Breakdown] Hold on a sec. He’s tuning even lower. What? Asshole, you’re already underground. You want to tune that shit to tectonic plates? The next album is being recorded using seismic activity. No notes. Just earthquakes in 7/13 time. [Breakdown] ZERO! ZERO! ZERO! ONE! That bird thinks the riff is over! ZERO! ZERO! ZERO! ONE! Throw a pinch harmonic on it—call it fun! ZERO! ZERO! ZERO! ONE! Black coat hissing in the sun! ZERO! ZERO! ZERO! ONE! Four hundred years— The same damn song! [Final Chorus] Doctor, doctor, here’s my conclusion: Your whole vibe is historical nonsense. Medieval style with a modern guitar, You look like Death walked into a prog-metal bar. CHUG-CHUG-CHUG – TING! There it is again—that riff! One more palm-muted stroke and your wrist is going to give out. No cure, no antidote— Just grab your nine-string guitar and tuck it back inside your coat. [Outro] Now, vanish dramatically into the mist. Yeah. Just like that. Keep it up. ... That bastard probably counts his steps in 17/8 time.
