[Intro — slow, crushing ritual stomps; low drones; layered whispers gathering in the distance] [Verse 1 — cold, sneering melodic vocal; deliberate phrasing over a relentless ceremonial pulse] You hide the blade behind the silk, Then play the saint when someone's bleeding. You slip the poison in the glass, Then act offended by their heaving. You're so fucking proud of being clever, Like nobody can see the game. You can rewrite a thousand stories, But the ending stays the same. You make your victims look like monsters, Then cry about the things they do. It's quite a talent, playing innocent When everyone knows the truth. [Pre-Chorus — drums intensify; layered whispers repeat the final words] Here comes the tragedy. Here comes the plea. Another fucking masterpiece Of manufactured misery. [Chorus — forceful melodic singing; thunderous stomping drums; low ritual chants underneath] You're a fucking monument To everything you claim to hate. A self-appointed martyr With a god-sized ego and a victim's fate. You want a crown for your suffering, A standing ovation for your shame. You'd burn the fucking world to ash Before admitting you're to blame. [Verse 2 — slow, deliberate delivery; one phrase per heavy ritual stomp, with space between lines] Backhanded comments. Coward's laughter. Poison hidden In the chatter. You call it banter When you wound. Then cry like hell When it comes round. Your trauma isn't sacred. Your self-loathing isn't depth. You're no tortured genius. You're just a fucking wreck. [Pre-Chorus — drums slow and heavy; each phrase separated by a full beat, layered whispers answering the lead] Cue the tears. Cue the blame. Who'll you sacrifice To save your name? [Brief instrumental pause — three heavy ritual strikes] Your little cowards Sing along. Tell you you're right. Tell you they're wrong. [Chorus — bigger vocal layers; relentless ritual percussion, forceful and melodic] You're a fucking monument To everything you claim to hate. A self-appointed martyr With a god-sized ego and a victim's fate. You want a crown for your suffering, A standing ovation for your shame. You'd burn the fucking world to ash Before admitting you're to blame. [Bridge — drums fall to sparse, heavy strikes; intimate, venomous vocal gradually building] You need them guilty. You need them weak. You need a new offender Every time you face yourself. You call it persecution When somebody sees through you. You call it cruelty When they stop protecting you. Your pain isn't a personality. Your damage isn't a crown. And all your little admirers Can't keep your bullshit standing up. [Final Chorus — maximum ritual stomp; layered male vocals; furious but melodic, every line landing hard] You're a fucking monument To everything you claim to hate. A self-appointed martyr Who mistakes attention for being great. You want a crown for your suffering, A standing ovation for your shame. You'd burn the fucking world to ash Before admitting you're to blame. [Outro — drums slow to isolated pounding strikes; final lines delivered with cold, absolute contempt] Keep your little sycophants. Keep your alibis. Keep telling them your version. You haven't fooled us. You're just the last to realise.
