[Intro – Spoken, piano stabs & bass rumble] Brett G. Friedman Brown hair, tousled… Green eyes, squinting… Neanderthal brow, crinkle-cut fried… [Verse 1 – Broken cadence, toms shuffle in] Like the notorious look in his mind, the scattered prednisone, zoned out— Thousand card care, hundred stare pickup, flipped up like a bird, a finger to the word— he won’t say… because he’s scared. [Break – Piano cluster + upright bass gliss] The note he won’t play… because he’s fared worse than all the other hearses… [Verse 2 – Darker, bass bowed, drums drag] Repurposed for Coca-Cola brand nurses, to buckle up his soul, strap him in— another bombed-out bunker of blow. Cocaine-fueled lulls, gone the distance of the moles— silver screen plateaus, crashed Tesla coiled coals. [Bridge – Free jazz chaos, horns stab, words spill fast] Machines given their own masterpieces to extol, their own vices to behold, their own humans to re-mold… It’s Brett G. Friedman trapped in gold, handcuffed slave to the woes, of algorithms that don’t know— emotions, so damn cold. [Chorus – Chant-like, drums swell, piano dissonance] Deep ice servers, untold… Even 4chan’d rather go— to greener screened pastures of the low. [Outro – Whispered, fading reverb] Handed pillage-proof, grown meta-aware drones, filtered for perfection… unlike his hand, that types… these damn groans.
