[Intro: crackle, count-in, someone clears throat] (one... two... nah, run it back) [Verse 1] Dust on the platter, I'm dust on the beat, the loop's got a limp — that's the way that it eat. Cut it mid-syllable, tail hangin' out, half a horn note and the rest is a doubt. Twelve bits and a prayer, hiss doin' the singin', my clock ain't the clock, it's whatever's still swingin'. I don't count bars, I count how it feel — the snare came late 'cause the snare had to heal. [Hook — half-sung, off-mic, doubled loose] Chop it, let it bleed, chop it, let it bleed, whatever's left of the record is whatever I need. [Verse 2] Basement got a mattress where the treble goes to die, sixty cycle hum is the choir standin' by. Rhodes through the echo, the echo through the wall, the wall through the tape and the tape et it all. I left the wrong chord in — that's a signature now, imperfection's a fingerprint, don't ask me how. Reverse the trumpet, let the silence get loud, somebody's grandma singin' under the crowd. [Bridge — spoken, close, breath heavy] ...that's it. Right there. Don't touch it. Yeah. Leave the mistake. The mistake is the song. [Hook] Chop it, let it bleed, chop it, let it bleed, whatever's left of the record is whatever I need. [Outro: loop degrades, filter closes by hand, tape stops mid-note]
