[Slick Gospel (The Ballad of Bill)] [Intro // Upright bass low and sultry. Turntable flutters like political leaflets in the wind. Distant sax croons false promises. Organ sighs like stained glass cracking.] [Male // Hollow-Mic Prophet // Velvet bite, dripping contempt] Oh, he played that sax like it was scripture, A Southern boy with Harvard hands— Lip curled in empathy, Fingers slick with compromise. Bill, baby, you were supposed to be different. (Yeah, right...) You kissed babies with one hand, Signed prison sentences with the other. "[Turntable slices in: "Tough on crime—" then chokes in static.]" You smiled while welfare crumbled— You fed the beast, not the belly. Painted red lines on Black neighborhoods And called them order. You shook hands with monsters In dark-lit towers. ("Flight logs don’t lie...") Epstein? He knew your cologne. Knew your secrets. Knew your frequency. [Snaps—slow, dripping like honey into gasoline.] Oh but the sax got quieter— Right around the time that blue dress Slapped you in the face (And history took a polaroid.) You wept for dignity, But left a nation choking on cigar smoke. A young girl aged by power, While you hid behind God And a speechwriter’s grace. [Bridge // Scratched choir sample. Organ stumbles. Snare taps like leaking faucet.] You had us— You had us dreaming, Of hope wrapped in jazz scales And welfare queens redeemed. But you gave us Three strikes, Broken homes, And a war on poverty That started with burning the poor. [Bass drops out. Silence, then slow return—grimy and resentful.] And now, Bill— They remember the charm, The playing cool, The talking smooth, The thumb-point politics. But I remember something else... That Arkansas grin hiding fangs, The knowing eyes While Lewinsky bled her youth into infamy. (A damn girl, Bill... a damn girl.) [Final Drop // No beat. Just organ hum and a whispered smear.] So here’s your requiem, Your dissonant gospel: You ain’t no prophet— Just a mirror cracked by power. And most forgot... But the ones who remember? We love you not. May your name be forgot. ("Slick Willie, fade to static...") [Outro // Tape hiss, muted sax, and a warped AM broadcast fading out.]
