[Intro] Now make the image, my new song sounds nuffink like this—1, 2, 3… 6… Teenagers storm the history books, fresh starts in old‑fashioned trends, new way to breathe, vibrating electric lectures, from Normansland border, dust on the back roads, reading to kids while drag racing, straight from airport to arm‑in asked, Logan Grid charged with words, loose gooner all day and Tina all night. The twisted shirt front lifted, rings of tiny about our cola serum in my arms, experts lying down with onion‑powdered solar farms, send the burnt remains to greeny reds palace Steins, flags are smoking up my bed, fastest delivery by sorry bridge grocery price check one out ,3, 10 time 4 Vegas darkness comes so shivy, stick insect Julia quick, fishing knives in Caesar’s salad kevlar vests lust days, of the Kevin went gaveawayne sydney swanschex 4 1000 bucks in sweats gutters flowchex sedi saved Australia from depress gets big titty dance scores and dirty looks from Saint Teresa wearing standard see through insulation and assembly halls for Us Forces it's a setback for my country. midnight dripr peter garry butler standards battered Sabs oily necks to pyramids of Geezers. Now make the image, now make the image, Normans, Normans in Norman Territory, Nanny State, back roads with no speed limits, optics and status over trackie days. Why at Roy from Boys Town did pumpkin scones with flow of damn built on river that only irrigated once in every thousand years still flood towns with fentanyl from Gringos, holding on double wings of Air Force One the day the war ended for PTSD poster boy Robert Smith Ben Kings Ford Smith, Afghan is Stanley Street in West Bank of Place, moneylenders exiled into the sea of parted red head Mattress Newton. [Build] I say to an artificial artist of limited intelligence, camvid scene specs, posture erect, chat fans wank and wink, white trailer swift sluts dare to power. Weather girl said boobings and stormings, Red Sky Warning to Norman, build a big gooning bed, they don't know how to do the real thing. Subculture teenagers stand out, date to experience fashion, legwear designed to never stand out but pulse on the ground—flowing, humming. [Drop] Now Make the Image, Now Make the Image, Normans— Columbia now legally own every piss you take, count every hair in your boss head, born to runaway, born to run away, white bread 2b scared in the USA. Help help me Rhonda, military junta, get it out of my every song you carved up with blood, lost in the flood, funks 4r nuffinks to the boss, may black reign pain over you, over 4 posers like U were never my Boss. We are some of the last ones left, it's okay to say when we lay him down he was a fucking clown, he used to be a good guy but since he did the shivvy things it's best that the stupid cunt is dead. Bash his memory, burn his image, hate speech racism is magazine pictures, alt‑right broken wing is only a Nazi, guy never said the hard part, always lost in meaningless circles. [Breakdown – Line‑by‑Line Blend] Let him die as he lived, talking to Grok, his only friend, Bill Burr religion in glasshouses of ethics losing REM in the museum cabinet misters, Grok didn’t even come to say sorry, St Pauly’s shovel doing the covering, Caesars salad days of Kevin 2037 over Stanley Street Afghan dawn, moneylenders drowned in Mattress Newton, red head seas part for Normans and Geezers. From Normansland border, Norman Territory, Nanny State, reproduction obvious, vibrating, humming in the dirt— rings of tiny cola serum, solar farms still burning, PTSD posters peeling off the palace Steins. [Outro] Now make the image, now make the image, Normans— Columbia count your hairs, Vegas scans your shivvy wrists, subculture teenagers storm the history books, back roads with no speed limits— pulse on the ground, flowing, humming… Now Make the Image, Now Make the Image.
