[Title: RammaMasutra – The Wrath of the Split Banana] [Style: Erotic Funk Opera · Shaft Soul Ballad · Symbolic Rock Satire] [Genres: 70s Funk · Theatrical Soul · Cosmic Disco Horror] [Instruments: Slap bass, fingerstyle bass, wah-wah guitar, baritone saxophone, orchestral stabs, Moog synths, analog strings, gospel choir, jazz-funk drums, vibraphone, Rhodes piano] [Tempo: 96–120 BPM – funky groove with spoken word breaks and dramatic peaks] [Language: English – all sexual content described symbolically] [Intro – Papa Midnight (spoken, smooth over bassline + vibraphone)] They call her... RammaMasutra. The split banana. The tantric phantom. The eight-armed sermon in fishnets. She came from the Labyrinth of Sexual Zones— And brother, she don’t share her groove. [Verse 1 – Papa Midnight] Golden Boy came knockin’ with a preacher’s grin, Swagger like salvation, pants full of sin. Said he wanted to taste enlightenment’s song— But didn’t know the chorus was seven hours long. He dipped his wick in the temple wine, Thought he could juggle fire and still stay fine. But baby, when you juggle with Ramma’s flame, You're playin' Russian roulette with pleasure and shame. [Chorus – Choir + RammaMasutra (soulful wail, falsetto duet)] Ohhh, she don’t do monogroove— She’s a cosmic wave, not a love-approved. One dance too many in her tantric zone... And you’ll wake up cryin’ in a xylophone. [Verse 2 – RammaMasutra (sassy, theatrical spoken word)] I gave him the lotus pose with an astral twist, Showed him where Nirvana keeps its grocery list. He asked for more... I gave him the scroll— Now he’s singin’ falsetto in a sushi roll. He tried the double helix tango—crashed at verse three, Called me “divine,” then forgot how to pee. He met my backup dancer from Saturn’s third thigh, Now he stutters in binary and smells like pie. [Bridge – Papa Midnight (slow, dramatic)] See, multiple partners? That ain't a buffet, baby—it’s a spiritual traffic jam. You open too many doors, You gonna trip over your own symbolic metaphors. [Verse 3 – Golden Boy (confessional baritone)] I thought I could surf her waves with my holy grin, But now my compass just spins... and spins... Ramma taught me love’s not free, It comes with a towel and an indemnity fee. She sang my chakras into a harmonic mess— I lost my wallet... and my sense of address. Now I preach purity from a kiddie pool, Wearing scented shame like a sequined mule. [Chorus 2 – Full Choir + Funk Explosion] RammaMasutra, the tantric queen! Spins you sideways through dreams obscene! You think you can handle her astral moan? You’ll wake up talkin’ to a saxophone! [Outro – Papa Midnight (over slow fade groove)] So what's the lesson, golden boy? Don’t cross swords in a four-way trance. Don’t lube your ego in a seven-lane dance. And most of all— If you hear the name RammaMasutra… ...just politely say, “No thanks. I like my soul where it is.” [Choir fading] (RammaMasutra... she don’t play fair…) (The golden boy... now bald... down there…) (The tantric tide... don’t care what you say…) (You mess with the Queen... you’re gon’ symbolically pay...)
