[Intro] [Clean, bright acoustic guitar picking with a steady, rhythmic tap on the wood] (He’s still talking, mate.) (Even as his ribcage hits his ankles, he’s still selling it.) "Look at this fold," he says. "People are saying it's the most beautiful fold they've ever seen." Check one, two. Let's witness the gold-standard collapse. [Verse 1] I’m standing in the ballroom, the Fifty Dollars in my hand Watching the Gilded Figurehead address the weary land He’s leaning on the lectern, he’s looking proper smug Talking ‘bout the "best-ever" biological tug "Nobody does a pucker like me," he tells the crowd While his shoulder blades are clicking, incredibly and loud "The doctors said, 'Sir, your sphincter is a work of art' It’s the most powerful muscle, a true patriot’s heart" Then his neck began to vanish, retreating to his chest He said, "Watch this transition, it’s simply the best" A structural invagination, a high-end, orange rift As his entire upper body gave a wet and heavy shift [Chorus] [Beat Drop] [Aggressive acoustic guitar slapping and heavy, thumping kick drum] He’s the finest singularity that the world has ever known A giant, puckered monarch on a very sticky throne One massive, orange aperture where the face used to be A televised disaster for the whole wide world to see (The pressure is historic!) (The equalization is elite!) A total saturation of the front row and the street [Verse 2] The vacuum was a masterpiece, a "tremendous" inner space Sucking in the microphone and the bronzer on his face Then came the equalization, the "most beautiful" of sounds A moist and heavy "thwip" that echoed through the grounds It wasn't just an ejection, it was a "perfect" orange spray Coating the paid extras in a "classy" kind of way A hyper-viscous slurry of steak and self-tan cream Expanding like a "winning" and biological dream I felt the hot humidity hit my "Make America" vest He muffled out a sentence: "This spray is the best" It clagged the CCTV, it filled the golden hall With a "top-tier" effluence that covered every wall [Chorus] He’s the finest singularity that the world has ever known A giant, puckered monarch on a very sticky throne One massive, orange aperture where the face used to be A televised disaster for the whole wide world to see (He’s equalizing beautifully!) (The saturation is a Ten!) The likes of which you’ll never, ever see again [Bridge] [Guitar slows to a single, ominous, low-E string thrum] [Whispered, rhythmic delivery with intense Welsh gravity] He’s still talking through the fold. "Do you see the viscosity? No one has viscosity like this." "The wetness is historic. The moistest ever seen from the standpoint of moisture." The Secret Service are trying to mop him up with silk handkerchiefs. But he’s just... he’s just a ring of meat now. A sentient, orange-scented hoop of executive power. And he’s proud of it. He’s telling the Bishop it’s the most "religious" pucker in history. (So sticky. So elite. So very, very puckered.) [Verse 3] I waddled through the orange mist, I tried to find the door But the "best-in-the-world" slurry was an inch deep on the floor Sixty Nine Million viewers saw the "greatest ever" breach While he was still attempting to deliver a "perfect" speech The cameras were occluded by a layer of the man The most successful rupture since the dawn of time began I’m going home to soak in bleach, to scrub away the "best" And try to find a memory where my lungs aren't so distressed The Great Executive Fold is the headline of the age A "world-class" catastrophe on a televised stage [Outro] [Acoustic guitar fades out with a series of dissonant, muted strums] Fifty Dollars. Not even enough for a new pair of retinas. (It’s in the seams, mate.) (It’s a molecular level of "perfect" shame.) I’m moving to the desert. Somewhere dry. Somewhere with no "best-in-the-world" moisture. [Final heavy, wet-sounding thump on the guitar body] [End]
