[Intro: 0:00; No fade in. No melody.] "1, 2, 3, 4!" [Band enters immediately at 190 BPM.] [A wall of distorted power chords and a relentless d-beat drum pattern.] … !!! [Verse 1: Vocals are staccato, rhythmic, and percussive. Almost rapping, but screamed.] Generic brand! Cold glass! Seconds ticking by and they just won’t pass! Spoon in the jar, digging for the ghost Choking on the thing that I used to love most! (Loved the most!) Take a bite! Chew the dirt! Fucking paste! Physical hurt! Tongue is a liar! The signals are dead! You ruined fucking Jiff inside my head! [Pre-Chorus: Guitars slide up the neck. Tension builds without dropping tempo.] You took the sweet! You took the salt! IT’S! ALL! YOUR! FAULT! [Chorus: Explosive, gang-vocal anthem. The melody simplifies to a chant.] I CAN’T TASTE A THING! (NOTHING!) I CAN’T TASTE A THING! (NOTHING!) Water into wine? (No!) wine into spit! Nothing kills the flavor like the lack of it! ASH IN MY MOUTH! GREY IN MY EYES! EVERYTHING IS TASTELESS SINCE YOU SAID GOODBYE! [Instrumental Break: Guitar solo is manic and atonal. Lots of whammy bar abuse.] [Verse 2: Bass guitar gets louder, grinding against the drums.] Walked outside! Sun goes down! Bruised peach rotting on the dirty ground! (Dirty ground!) Put on the record that we used to play! How the hell’d you ruin green fucking day?! Sensory theft! Grand larceny! Gave you a heart; here’s the nothing that you gave to me! Left me with the grey! Left me with the blur! I don't remember who the hell we were! [Pre-Chorus: Feedback squeal layers over the rhythm.] You took the sweet! You took the salt! IT’S! ALL! YOUR! FAULT! [Chorus: Maximum intensity. The drummer is bashing the crash cymbal on every beat.] I CAN’T TASTE A THING! (NOTHING!) I CAN’T TASTE A THING! (NOTHING!) Water into wine? (No!) wine into spit! Nothing kills the flavor like the lack of it! ASH IN MY MOUTH! GREY IN MY EYES! EVERYTHING IS TASTELESS SINCE YOU SAID GOODBYE! [Bridge: NO TEMPO DROP. The rhythm section locks into a machine-gun snare roll that lasts for 4 bars. Vocals scream over the top, straining to hit the notes.] STUCK TO THE ROOF OF MY SOUL! STUCK TO THE ROOF OF MY SOUL! CAN’T SPIT IT OUT! CAN’T SWALLOW IT WHOLE! (Guitars crash back in) GIVE ME THE SOUR! GIVE ME THE ROT! I’D RATHER TASTE THE POISON THAN THE NOTHING I’VE GOT! [Outro: Tempo accelerates. 200 BPM. 210 BPM. Pure chaos.] I’D RATHER TASTE POISON! (POISON!) I’D RATHER TASTE PAIN! (PAIN!) THAN THIS PEANUT BUTTER SILENCE! DRIVING! ME! IN! SANE! [End: Sudden stop on the snare crack. Microphone drops to the floor with a loud thud. Silence.] [background chatter] (Is this fucking skippy?!)
