[Intro — the Mistress, close and quiet] Leave the sentence unfinished. I want to hear where it breaks. [Verse A — low male lead; rigid, heavy groove] Start with a room and a half-shut door. Somebody wants what they can’t ask for. Find the word that catches in their teeth. Give it the weight of what they need. Put their whole damn body behind the claim. Hit the first chord and call it A. [Verse B — the Mistress answers; the riff changes accents] Turn the chair. Sit where they sat. Find the reason they’d answer back. Give them a line that can open your hand. Make it a voice you can barely withstand. Same locked door, another key. Now let it answer. Call it B. [Chorus — both voices; full band] FORCE FED— LET THE HOOK GO DOWN. FORCE FED— MAKE A MEAL OF THE SOUND. YOU BRING THE QUESTION. I BRING THE KNIFE. WE CUT FOUR SONGS FROM THE SAME DAMN LIFE. [Verse C — guitars fall away; a buried bass figure emerges] Pull down the claim. Pull down the reply. What did we step over walking inside? A plate in the sink. A coat on the floor. Someone who wasn’t worth a verse before. Give the remainder a melody. Let the room speak. Call it C. [Verse D — a quieter, cutting voice; the melody turns] Turn the new witness toward the light. Let someone else describe that night. The quietest mouth can still swallow the room. A different hunger can use the same spoon. Reverse the pull. Let it disagree. Give the other wind a name: Side D. [Chorus — heavier, voices trading lines] FORCE FED— LET THE HOOK GO DOWN. FORCE FED— MAKE A MEAL OF THE SOUND. YOU BRING THE QUESTION. I BRING THE KNIFE. WE CUT FOUR SONGS FROM THE SAME DAMN LIFE. [Breakdown — spoken commands over single guitar strikes] KEEP THE SCENE. CUT THE SPEECH. GIVE THE OTHER VOICE SOME FUCKING TEETH. PULL OUT THE CLAIM. PULL OUT THE FIGHT. WHAT’S STILL BREATHING WHEN BOTH GO QUIET? TURN IT. ANSWER IT. LET IT PUSH BACK. LEAVE A LITTLE HUNGER FOR THE NEXT TRACK. [Bridge — the writer alone; instruments drop out one by one] Who set the weights? Who tuned the scale? Who cut the lines That didn’t fit the tale? Four different mouths. My hand on the faders. [Silence — then the Mistress] Write that part too. [Final Chorus — all voices distinct inside one enormous groove] FORCE FED— LET THE HOOK GO DOWN. FORCE FED— MAKE A MEAL OF THE SOUND. YOU BRING THE QUESTION. I BRING THE KNIFE. WE CUT FOUR SONGS FROM THE SAME DAMN LIFE. [Outro — the Mistress; spoon against glass] Leave the rest in the cupboard. You’ll be hungry again.
