The Grand Inspection

UK hip-hop, industrial folk, folk-rap, odd-meter / prog-leaning acoustic

[Verse 1]
Ten years of the colon, ten years of the pipe
Looking for a polyp or a reason for the hype
I’ve seen a thousand endings, every shape and every size
And I can see the darkness reflecting in their eyes
I start the morning shifted in a rhythmic seven-eight
Prep the lubricant and tell the patient it’ll be great
But something in the ceiling started whispering to me
"Harrison, there’s secrets in the gut you’ve gotta see"
(He’s lost it)
I dropped the camera and I grabbed a rusty kitchen fork
I’m looking for the meaning in the fiber and the pork
The nurse is screaming "Doctor, please, you’re making quite a mess"
I told her "Shut your mouth, I’m decompressing all the stress"

[Pre-Chorus]
The walls are pulsing like an intestinal tract
There’s no turning back, there’s no turning back
(Back, back, back)
The rhythm’s broken and the mind has followed suit
I’m digging for the truth, I’m digging for the root

[Chorus]
Oh, the doctor’s gone rogue in the lower-end zone
He’s carving out a kingdom on a biological throne
It’s a math-folk nightmare, a rhythmic attack
Once you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you never come back
(Never come back)
It’s a bloody disaster, a surgical sin
Let the madness out, let the fingerpicking in!

[Verse 2]
I’m rapping to the rhythm of a heartbeat on a screen
The most disgusting poetry that you have ever seen
I’ve got a telescope, a shovel, and a bag of Epsom salt
If the patient dies of shock, well, it isn’t really my fault
(Bull-shit!)
I’m calculating variables, digits in the dark
Leaving every sigmoid with a personalized mark
I’ve abandoned the Hippocratic, I’ve embraced the hip-hop
I’m the king of the sphincter and I’m never gonna stop
I’m a lyrical proctologist, surgical with the flow
Don’t tell me where to stop, I know exactly where to go
The police are at the double doors, they’re trying to break the seal
But they don’t understand the visceral nature of the feel

[Bridge]
(Guitar shifts to a complex, dissonant 5/4 breakdown)
Left, right, center, deep.
(Deep)
I haven’t had a wink of sleep.
(Sleep)
The colon is a labyrinth, the rectum is a maze
I’ve been lost inside the human gut for forty-seven days
(Forty-seven days!)
I’ve found a secret city made of bile and regret
I haven’t found the exit, or the ending of it yet!

[Breakdown]
(Heavy sub-bass kicks in over aggressive acoustic strumming)
(Screamed)
IT’S ALL CONNECTED!
THE PLUMBING! THE POETRY! THE POLYPS!
GET OUT OF MY THEATRE!

[Final Chorus]
Oh, the doctor’s gone rogue in the lower-end zone
He’s carving out a kingdom on a biological throne
It’s a math-folk nightmare, a rhythmic attack
Once you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you never come back
(Never come back)
It’s a bloody disaster, a surgical sin
Let the madness out, let the fingerpicking in!

[Outro]
(Music slows down, guitar becomes more melodic and melancholic)
(Distant sirens)
Check the chart...
Patient name: Reality.
Condition: Terminal.
(Long, drawn-out acoustic chord)
(The sound of a single latex glove hitting the floor)
I think I’ve found... 
Oh. 
That shouldn't be there.
(Silence)

3266/7500

[Intro] (Rhythmic clicking of latex gloves snapping) (Acoustic guitar enters in a frantic, shifting 7/8 pattern) One, two. Is this thing on? Doctor Harrison is... occupied. He’s gone deep. Too deep. [Verse 1] Ten years of the colon, ten years of the pipe Looking for a polyp or a reason for the hype I’ve seen a thousand endings, every shape and every size And I can see the darkness reflecting in their eyes I start the morning shifted in a rhythmic seven-eight Prep the lubricant and tell the patient it’ll be great But something in the ceiling started whispering to me "Harrison, there’s secrets in the gut you’ve gotta see" (He’s lost it) I dropped the camera and I grabbed a rusty kitchen fork I’m looking for the meaning in the fiber and the pork The nurse is screaming "Doctor, please, you’re making quite a mess" I told her "Shut your mouth, I’m decompressing all the stress" [Pre-Chorus] The walls are pulsing like an intestinal tract There’s no turning back, there’s no turning back (Back, back, back) The rhythm’s broken and the mind has followed suit I’m digging for the truth, I’m digging for the root [Chorus] Oh, the doctor’s gone rogue in the lower-end zone He’s carving out a kingdom on a biological throne It’s a math-folk nightmare, a rhythmic attack Once you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you never come back (Never come back) It’s a bloody disaster, a surgical sin Let the madness out, let the fingerpicking in! [Verse 2] I’m rapping to the rhythm of a heartbeat on a screen The most disgusting poetry that you have ever seen I’ve got a telescope, a shovel, and a bag of Epsom salt If the patient dies of shock, well, it isn’t really my fault (Bull-shit!) I’m calculating variables, digits in the dark Leaving every sigmoid with a personalized mark I’ve abandoned the Hippocratic, I’ve embraced the hip-hop I’m the king of the sphincter and I’m never gonna stop I’m a lyrical proctologist, surgical with the flow Don’t tell me where to stop, I know exactly where to go The police are at the double doors, they’re trying to break the seal But they don’t understand the visceral nature of the feel [Bridge] (Guitar shifts to a complex, dissonant 5/4 breakdown) Left, right, center, deep. (Deep) I haven’t had a wink of sleep. (Sleep) The colon is a labyrinth, the rectum is a maze I’ve been lost inside the human gut for forty-seven days (Forty-seven days!) I’ve found a secret city made of bile and regret I haven’t found the exit, or the ending of it yet! [Breakdown] (Heavy sub-bass kicks in over aggressive acoustic strumming) (Screamed) IT’S ALL CONNECTED! THE PLUMBING! THE POETRY! THE POLYPS! GET OUT OF MY THEATRE! [Final Chorus] Oh, the doctor’s gone rogue in the lower-end zone He’s carving out a kingdom on a biological throne It’s a math-folk nightmare, a rhythmic attack Once you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you never come back (Never come back) It’s a bloody disaster, a surgical sin Let the madness out, let the fingerpicking in! [Outro] (Music slows down, guitar becomes more melodic and melancholic) (Distant sirens) Check the chart... Patient name: Reality. Condition: Terminal. (Long, drawn-out acoustic chord) (The sound of a single latex glove hitting the floor) I think I’ve found... Oh. That shouldn't be there. (Silence)

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