[Intro] [Clean, bright acoustic guitar picking with a steady, walking bassline] [Sound of a crowd cheering, then a sudden, low-frequency hum] (I was just there for the Fifty Dollars, mate.) (Standard background work. Look engaged, clap at the pauses.) But nobody mentioned the structural integrity of the Commander. Nobody mentioned the folding. (Check one, two. Let's talk about the rupture.) [Verse 1] I’m standing in the front row, wearing a borrowed red cap Fifty Dollars in my pocket, ready for the populist trap The Bronzed Leader is at the podium, waving a tiny hand Promising a golden future for this scorched and weary land The sun is beating down on the tarmac and the steel When suddenly the Forty Seventh starts to look quite unreal His suit began to pucker, his tie began to sway But not in the breeze, mate, in a terrifying way His shoulders hit his hips with a sound like a wet leather glove Folding inward on himself, losing all the light from above The crowd went silent as the geometry began to fail The leader of the free world was becoming a physical jail [Chorus] [Beat Drop] [Aggressive acoustic guitar slapping and heavy kick drum] He folded like an origami nightmare in the midday heat Transforming from a statesman to a giant ring of meat One massive, puckered aperture, a void where the face should be A televised disaster for the whole world to see (The pressure is mounting!) (The equalization is near!) We’re standing in the blast zone, paralyzed by fear [Verse 2] It was a perfect circle, a sphincter of absolute state Collapsing the ego under its own massive weight The bronze tan was stretching, the golden hair was tucked And that’s when the atmospheric pressure got truly... well, disrupted As the interior vacuum met the humid Jersey air The equalization happened with a sound beyond compare A moist, concussive "thwip" that echoed through the stands Coating the paid extras and the cameras and the bands It wasn't just a liquid, it was an orange, viscous spray A mixture of bronzer and the burger he’d had that day I felt it hit my forehead, I felt it hit my eyes A warm and heavy coating of the political surprise [Chorus] He folded like an origami nightmare in the midday heat Transforming from a statesman to a giant ring of meat One massive, puckered aperture, a void where the face should be A televised disaster for the whole world to see (He’s equalized on us!) (The saturation is grand!) An orange tidal wave across the weary land [Bridge] [Guitar slows to a single, haunting, low-E string thrum] [Whispered, rhythmic delivery] I can still taste the spray-tan. It’s like metallic apricots and desperate ambition. We were just trying to pay our rent, mate. Now we’re part of a biological event. I saw a Secret Service agent try to wipe it off his shades. But the viscosity... the viscosity is permanent. The way the suit just vanished into the fold. A black hole of executive power. (So sticky. So orange. So very, very loud.) [Verse 3] I waddled to the parking lot, dripping in the sludge The media was filming, refusing to even budge Sixty Nine Million people watching the replay on the loop Of the Bronzed Commander turning into a giant, fleshy hoop I tried to get my Fifty Dollars from the man in the van But he’d been coated too, he was a very sticky man "In conclusion," I shouted, through a mask of orange goo "I’m never doing background work for the Forty Seventh, ever again, and that’s true!" The rally was a washout, a traumatic, wet display Of what happens when the pressure finally has its way I’m going home to scrub myself with a bottle of industrial bleach And try to forget the day the leader made that final, folding speech [Outro] [Acoustic guitar fades out with a series of dissonant, muted strums] White shirts. Gone. Red hats. Saturated. (It’s in the pores, mate.) (It’s a molecular level of populist shame.) I think I’ll just move to the moon. No atmosphere there. No pressure to equalize. Just me and the rocks. [Final heavy thump on the guitar body] [End]
