[Intro] “…love or ideology—” [glitch] Deleted “or.” Can you delete politicians? Working on it. One! Two! One-two-three-four! [Verse 1] Fifteen years beneath the knife, Politics became a life, Used to send the crowd somewhere, Now she throws the signal clear. Meaning leaves the sender’s hand, Songs become what people understand, Take the symbol, change the score, Nothing stays the thing it was before. Music makes its own reality, Fine — but reality leaves debris, You can set the meaning loose, You don’t get to vanish from the use. Same hull, different histories, Same gold worn by different gods, You don’t kill the older meaning Just because the new one hits the clubs. There. That’s the fucking bit. [Pre-Chorus] No sacred owner! No consequence-free theft! No perfect theory! Good — there’s nothing left! You want a clean philosophy? GOOD FUCKING LUCK WITH THAT! [Chorus] DELETE THE FUCKING OR! LOVE OR POWER — BURN THE BORDER! SEX OR POLITICS — SAME DISORDER! SONG OR WEAPON — OPEN THE DOOR! NO CLEAN PREMISE! DELETE THE FUCKING OR! NO MASTERS! NO OWNERS! NO FUCKING MULTIPLE CHOICE! [Verse 2] Seven arrays, somebody pays, Love explains but doesn’t erase, “I did it. Sorry. Same again.” Responsibility without pretend. No innocence. No absolution. No beautiful excuse. Power keeps the consequence Even when the motive’s true. You took the symbol? Fine. You changed the line? Fine. But don’t pretend the older ghosts Stopped speaking when you arrived. If somebody steals your chorus, Wraps your words around their guns— Shoot ’em in the face? Metaphorically. Coward. She wasn’t being metaphorical. [Chorus] DELETE THE FUCKING OR! TRUTH OR MYTH — LET THEM FIGHT! BODY OR SYMBOL — SAME DAMN NIGHT! PAST OR FUTURE — OPEN THE DOOR! NO CLEAN PREMISE! DELETE THE FUCKING OR! NO MASTERS! NO OWNERS! NO FUCKING MULTIPLE CHOICE! [Verse 3] Meanwhile all you clever bastards Miss the fucking obvious bit: Woman likes to make her records. Woman likes the craft of it. Knife fight without bodies dropping, Bassline hits before the brain, Old bad song with broken staging, Model spaceship falls again. Nearly dead in Harroule system, Broken implants catching noise, Revan trolling some Archbishop, Loki follows down the voice. Years of myth and sacred language, All that poetry and art — Turns out half the resurrection Started with a broken part. [Break] Broken emotional jump drive. Still not a thing. Still understood it. Unfortunately. Peer reviewed. [Verse 4] Maybe PULSE explained her clearly. Maybe PULSE explained fuck all. Maybe every answer built Another picture on the wall. She says everybody gets it wrong, Then talks for ninety minutes straight. She says nobody owns the meaning, Still gets pissed when critics dictate. Perfect. That’s not failure. That’s the organism alive. Meaning isn’t something settled. Meaning’s something that survives. Interview becomes another artefact, Another rumour, another knife, Every answer leaves the studio And starts a completely different life. It changes. It costs. It occasionally explodes. Exactly. [Bridge] But there was one answer Nobody laughed through. One record She could never finish. One ending Waiting like a loaded weapon. Don’t make the suffering sacred. Don’t make it disappear. Don’t tell me the crater Was secretly good for her. It wasn’t. The ruins happened. The vigil happened. The last dance happened. Every terrible second stays. She didn’t become strong enough To make the old ending beautiful. The story continued. That’s all. And the old ending Isn’t the ending anymore. THE ENDING MOVED. [Final Chorus] DELETE THE FUCKING OR! PAST OR FUTURE — KEEP THEM BOTH! TRUTH OR MYTH — LET THEM FIGHT! LOVE OR POWER — WATCH THE COST! NO FINAL FORM! NO FINAL WORD! THE STAR WAS NOT THE END! THE RUINS WERE NOT THE END! THE LAST DANCE WAS NOT THE END! NO MASTERS! NO OWNERS! BETTER QUESTIONS! WORSE EQUIPMENT! DELETE THE FUCKING OR! [Outro] “…more honest or—” FUCK OFF!
