Are you receiving me? Or has the signal finally consumed you? This is not a transmission. This is an autopsy. We are the scalpel and the wound We are the frequency that howls inside the tomb Your saviors wear brass knuckles now Your angels spit and curse The dial is a crucifix, the static is a hearse We breathe in all your failures, we exhale your regret This Dead City Radio will be your last broadcast yet Rusted needles, broken glass A million voices speak through us at last Turn it up! Turn it up! Oh yeah! We drown inside the radio Dead radio We drown inside the radio Dead radio They sold you holy violence wrapped in a neon lie A slaughterhouse of signals where the innocent still cry We are the freaks beneath the floorboards, we are the static scream The parasites of frequency that haunt your broken dream Your gods are made of wire, your faith is made of rust We are the fists that grind your idols into dust Burning circuits, bleeding chrome There is no heaven, there is no home Turn it up! Turn it up! Oh yeah! We are the radio Dead radio We are the radio Dead radio The Beast of Transmission feeds on the weak The cool wave of ignorance swallows the meek And youβ¦ you are nothing but a dial, a knife A broken contraption that severs your life So turn the blade, let the frequency slice Baptized in blood, anointed in ice We drown inside the radio! Dead radio! We are the radio! Dead radio! We worship the signal, we feast on the static! Dead radio! We sacrifice flesh to the machine that is manic! Dead radio! We drown! We are! We worship! We bleed! Dead radio! The frequency howls and the parasite feeds! Dead radio! Nothing ever happensβ¦ until you medicate. Nothing ever livesβ¦ until you violate. The frequency preys, the signal is host And you are still listeningβ¦ β¦to what matters most.
