oh oh sugar laced soulpickers ” We’re not snapping for sin, We’re calling bullshit to class.” --- [Verse Block 1: “Of Velvet and Vengeance”] [Backing | minor key piano walks, soft ride cymbal, restrained brass pokes] [Voice | Mic | cool fury, clean bars] > “Anton Szandor LaVey—clown in red lights, Built a ‘church’ off theater and Friday night frights. Said he founded Satan, made darkness trend, But all he really founded? A mail-order send.” [scat tag | “Bada-dat, nah—he ain’t deep.”] > “He sold mystique in a pleather wrap, Goth without guts, just drama camp crap. His gospel? A mirror in drag and shame— 'Do as thou wilt,' but trademarked the name.” --- [Verse Block 2: “Mail-Order Messiah”] [Backing | upright bass climbs, bossa snap rim hits, snare-ghost roll] [Voice | Mic | lower tone, spit precise, each bar an indictment] > “He preached ‘freedom’—so long as you paid, With Church of Satan kits and titles he made. Power through image, no courage to match— More Cruella than cruelty, no teeth to that scratch.” [horn flare – discordant squall] [scat| “Snap-back clap—snake oil slick!”] > “15-year bride? Grooming by law. But let’s not pretend he followed the claw. He wanted infernal, but all he gave— Was cosplay and cringes in a borrowed grave.” --- [Bridge Block: “Whispers from the March Hare”] [Voice | Missy | hushed, hollow, melodic spoken-word with venom] [Backing | sparse keys, soft moan of theremin, wine glass edge tone] > “He never spilled blood, just spilled ink. Never held pain—just posed to the brink. Truth? It burns. It scars. It teaches. But he only danced in shallow reaches.” > “His altar was polyester. His gospel was show. His sin had a script. His shadows? A glow. We bled. We clawed. We built from ash— He sold a pentagram from a discount stash.” --- [Verse Block 3: “Crimson Carpet for Clowns”] [Backing | rim hits with delay, upright slap bass, light kick brushwork] [Voice | Mic | sardonic, courtroom swagger] > “No edge. No truth. Just scene. A black-clad P.T. Barnum with a fog machine. 'High Priest of Hell'? More like B-movie flop— The real devils laughed when he started to shop.” [FX | flickering flame morphs into applause FX – abruptly cuts] [scat | “Hup! Two-bit hell, rented sin, fake swell.”] > “He wasn’t feared—he was filed. By goth teens and mall rats beguiled. He died as he lived—in rented myth, No throne, no fire, just latex and grift.” --- [Chorus Block: “Ego Ain’t God”] [Call & Response | Missy + Mic | sharp jazz timing, stripped-down swing groove] [Backing | punch brass, bass slap, claps with rim echoes] > “Who crowned him king?” “He wrote his own crown!” “Who called him dark?” “A circus letdown!” > “He sold edge with no blood, Played God with no flame. Spoke of beasts and pleasure— But feared his own name.” --- [Outro Block: “Final Judgment Burn”] [Backing | silence with heartbeat FX, slow turntable winddown] [Voice | Mic, solo, low and steady – no performance, just truth] > “Anton LaVey, High Priest of Paste. A hustler who hid behind devilish taste. If you build your temple from lies, Don’t act shocked when it crumbles on pride. Your altar never bled. Your sins never fed. Just latex, fake press, and a rented bed.” [FX | mic drop echo, followed by real thunder crack layered with crowd static] [tape winds to silence]
