Rude Boy Machine (Dropcore Requiem)

Thee Mourning Starr

Rude Boy

Thee Mourning Starr

hybrid dubstep-metalcore-rap, dubstep, metalcore, rap, industrial, djent

[Intro]
Put the deck on the floor.
Let the bass wake the boards.
Let the old tape talk.
Let it answer the door.

[Verse 1]
Marantz in the corner with the handle cracked.
Little gray coffin with a voice trapped.
Iron oxide ribbon running brown and thin.
Whole lost weather getting pulled back in.
Kick leaves space where the heart should land.
Skank hits short like a reprimand.
Bass comes low from an underground room.
Thirty hertz blooming like mechanical doom.
I press play and the table shakes.
Not from volume, from the grief it wakes.
Whoever spoke here is almost gone.
But the machine kept carrying on.

[Pre-Chorus]
Wheel turn heavy, wheel turn slow.
Tell me what the living do not know.
Wheel turn heavy, wheel turn rough.
Memory is never clean enough.
Wheel turn heavy, wheel turn mean.
There is a ghost in the magnet sheen.
Wheel turn heavy, wheel turn through.
I am listening back to you.

[Chorus]
Run the tape, let the lost voice ride.
Run the tape with the room inside.
Run the tape through the rust and rain.
Run the tape till it speaks again.
Run the tape, let the floorboards know.
Run the tape where the dead roots grow.
Run the tape, do not make it clean.
Grief is holy in the machine.

[Verse 2]
Yeah, deck spin slow when the night burns black.
Got a ghost in the cones, got a kick in my back.
Got a hum in the wires like a flatline scream.
Got a skull full of clips, let me dump this dream.
I been windin’ this reel like I wind my rage.
Every hiss, every pop is a torn-out page.
Every drop when it lurch, that’s my chest in a cage.
Every glitch in the pitch is a voice off stage.

Got my thumb on the stop like a last good-bye.
Got my face in the woofer, let it swell, let it cry.
Let it swing from the ceiling when the tones collide.
Let the kick drum buckle when the dead inside.
Let the low-end crawl up the spine and seize.
Let the hi-hat chatter like bad news, please.
Let the fuse in the heart hit the brim then break.
I’m a verse on a tape that the world won’t take.

[Bridge]
The siren is low like a ship in fog.
The motor is limping like a wounded dog.
The battery coughs and the LEDs dim.
Still the old song claws back in.
Do not cut the hiss from the prayer.
Do not take the dust from the air.
Do not tune the sorrow polite.
Let the broken deck bite.

[Final Chorus]
Run the tape, let the lost voice ride.
Run the tape with the room inside.
Run the tape through the rust and rain.
Run the tape till it speaks again.
Run the tape, let the floorboards know.
Run the tape where the dead roots grow.
Run the tape, do not make it clean.
Grief is holy in the machine.
If the chorus falls out of time,
That is the body leaving mine.
If the signal tears apart,
That is the shape of a magnetic heart.

[Outro]
The one-drop comes back wounded.
The sub holds the name.
The transport clicks once.
The silence is not the same.

2845/7500

[Intro] Put the deck on the floor. Let the bass wake the boards. Let the old tape talk. Let it answer the door. [Verse 1] Marantz in the corner with the handle cracked. Little gray coffin with a voice trapped. Iron oxide ribbon running brown and thin. Whole lost weather getting pulled back in. Kick leaves space where the heart should land. Skank hits short like a reprimand. Bass comes low from an underground room. Thirty hertz blooming like mechanical doom. I press play and the table shakes. Not from volume, from the grief it wakes. Whoever spoke here is almost gone. But the machine kept carrying on. [Pre-Chorus] Wheel turn heavy, wheel turn slow. Tell me what the living do not know. Wheel turn heavy, wheel turn rough. Memory is never clean enough. Wheel turn heavy, wheel turn mean. There is a ghost in the magnet sheen. Wheel turn heavy, wheel turn through. I am listening back to you. [Chorus] Run the tape, let the lost voice ride. Run the tape with the room inside. Run the tape through the rust and rain. Run the tape till it speaks again. Run the tape, let the floorboards know. Run the tape where the dead roots grow. Run the tape, do not make it clean. Grief is holy in the machine. [Verse 2] Yeah, deck spin slow when the night burns black. Got a ghost in the cones, got a kick in my back. Got a hum in the wires like a flatline scream. Got a skull full of clips, let me dump this dream. I been windin’ this reel like I wind my rage. Every hiss, every pop is a torn-out page. Every drop when it lurch, that’s my chest in a cage. Every glitch in the pitch is a voice off stage. Got my thumb on the stop like a last good-bye. Got my face in the woofer, let it swell, let it cry. Let it swing from the ceiling when the tones collide. Let the kick drum buckle when the dead inside. Let the low-end crawl up the spine and seize. Let the hi-hat chatter like bad news, please. Let the fuse in the heart hit the brim then break. I’m a verse on a tape that the world won’t take. [Bridge] The siren is low like a ship in fog. The motor is limping like a wounded dog. The battery coughs and the LEDs dim. Still the old song claws back in. Do not cut the hiss from the prayer. Do not take the dust from the air. Do not tune the sorrow polite. Let the broken deck bite. [Final Chorus] Run the tape, let the lost voice ride. Run the tape with the room inside. Run the tape through the rust and rain. Run the tape till it speaks again. Run the tape, let the floorboards know. Run the tape where the dead roots grow. Run the tape, do not make it clean. Grief is holy in the machine. If the chorus falls out of time, That is the body leaving mine. If the signal tears apart, That is the shape of a magnetic heart. [Outro] The one-drop comes back wounded. The sub holds the name. The transport clicks once. The silence is not the same.

0/500