Nurse Snatchet (Banquet Mix)

[Instrumental] [Intro] [tray clatter — imitated with tongue clicks and lip pops] [fluoro hum — soft sustained throat tone] [wet shoe squeak — tight sliding mouth sounds] [baby monitor hiss — airy vocal noise] Bmm-tk, tss-tss. Bmm-tk, tss. [Spoken Intro — soft, clinical, mildly amused] Good evening. They call me Nurse Snatchet. And before anybody panics: You are perfectly safe. Merely temporary. [Hook] Hush now, humankind. Sugar on the rim. You call it a ward. We call it a tin. CALL: Who's in bed? RESP: Breakfast, dear. CALL: Who's upstairs? RESP: Teeth, my dear. Bmm-tk, tss-tss. Bone-china grin. [Verse 1] I wear white at midnight, push the moon along the rail, Clipboards like confessionals that never tell a tale. Little warm mammals in a single filing line, Each one tagged and blinking in the antiseptic shine. They shuffle in their slippers, dragging drips and softer shoes, They dream of getting better while they hum the evening news. You call it a lifetime, such an optimistic word, We call it the menu that nobody ever heard. CALL: Nurse, am I ill? RESP: Perfectly ripe. CALL: Nurse, will I live? RESP: Only one bite. [Hook] Hush now, humankind. Sugar on the rim. You call it a ward. We call it a tin. CALL: What are we? RESP: Soft and loud. CALL: What are they? RESP: Above the cloud. Bmm-tk, tss-tss. Tray goes in. [Instrumental Break] [vocal kick drum and snare continue, mimicking rolling gurney wheels] [rapid vocal hi-hat pattern like fluorescent buzz] [vocalized bass pulse like distant generator] [playful clinical beatbox flourishes: clipped "chk-clip, chk-clip"] [short female vocal scratches: "Snatch-Snatch-Sn-Snatchet"] [Verse 2] Garter-snap gloves, little latex thunderclap, Lipstick on the stainless where the silhouettes unwrap. I take your fading pulse to season up the air, Check your chart for timings when the guests prefer you rare. Do not be dramatic, there is paperwork to sign, Predators say grace in the fluorescent feeding line. We came before your stories, before the stolen fire, We taught your tongue to hunger, then we wound the craving higher. CALL: Are they angels? RESP: Wider mouths. CALL: Are they aliens? RESP: Further south. [Spoken Break] Oh, don't fret, sweetheart. Have you seen the waiting list? [Verse 3] The call bell keeps on ringing like a distant nursery rhyme, The drip stand ticks the seconds while we step outside of time. You sing of getting out of here, of sunshine and a train, We hum along politely while we portion out your brain. No shining fleet descending, no bright abduction beams, Just paperwork and lullabies folded into dreams. You ask who built the farm where all your little hopes misplace: Things with nothing you could picture for a mouth or for a face. CALL: Who made the farm? RESP: Things with no face. CALL: Where do they live? RESP: One inch past space. [Hook — stronger female backing vocals] Hush now, humankind. Sugar on the rim. You call it a ward. We call it a tin. CALL: Who owns the floor? RESP: Not you, love. CALL: Who owns the sky? RESP: Those above. Bmm-tk, tss-tss. Bmm-tk, tss. [Verse 4] The clipboards sign you over with a tidy little note, The stretcher is a serving cart in hospital-white coat. The ones upstairs are dining on your x-rays and your charts, They like a touch of terror to embolden softer hearts. The higher class adore you though they never ask your name, They nibble tiny futures and they call it something tame. I raise my eyes politely while they praise the tender spin, And nobody suspects the ward was built to be a tin. So ring your bell on Sunday, bring your fears and bring your fork, We’ve stocked a row of dreamers from the suburbs to New York. You may select a story, watch it tremble, watch it run, Then send it up in stainless for the ones above the sun. [Final Hook] Hush now, humankind. Sugar on the rim. You call it a ward. We call it a tin. CALL: Nurse, can I go? RESP: Soon as you’re done. CALL: Done with what? RESP: Being someone. Bmm-tk, tss-tss. Bmm-tk, tss. [Outro] [rhythmic breathing, like slow ventilator] [slowing vocal hi-hats, fluorescent buzz fading] [final vocal kick drum, like a chart stamped CLOSED] [Whispered] Locally sourced, dear. Existence is sauce.