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All lyrics:
+ Dylan Thomas (track 06).

All voices:


released November 26, 2016



Some rights reserved. Please refer to individual track pages for license info.


Crâne d'Ours Belgium

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Track Name: A written official recognition of a consul or commercial agent issued by the government to which he is accredited and authorizing him to exercise his powers in the place to which he is assigned.
It's all the same,
Another brother's dead.
Samples of fear.
Disconnect -
If you don't like it.
"I'm going to paralyze your face" she said.
She blinded me with a soft rage.

At least, i was useful for the last time.
"Ok honey, puke all your demons."
Necrosis of the loved one on a pedestal made of shit ...
So ... Ok ...
Puke, puke, puke, puke, puke.
Puke, puke, puke, puke, puke.
Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke.
Track Name: Having the power of self government.
Hold my tears i tried my best;
Pop a bullet in your chest,
I'mma make your heads bop until your veins pop,
Can’t tell you where i’m going, just know i won't stop.
One shot make a nigga's heartbeat stop.
Cause you loving the way my ollie got pop.
So, fuck whoever hating i stay letting my tool pop,
Then let that arm & hammer, hammer it right to a lot,
And your loves in hindsight and you see everything its not.
Never gonna stop more flow than a shook soda pop,
Got shows on top of shows,
And my ex hoes, she pop ex rows,
Pop you like a pimple.
The world is so typical.
It's not hip-hop, it's pop.
And don't make vibrations stop.

Without them, the government would definitely be inadequate.
Gettin' crazier than Eminem's medicine cabinet
But that throat she got have a nigga stuck
Because the government just does'nt give a fuck
Rapping roulette, this life is a drug
Because the government just does'nt give a fuck
Relying only on self
Yeah, that there is a fight in itself
Aiming at the opulent armed only with a pen an a paper. armament.
But we can't deny that we have a corrupt government
May not change the world
Before the government learned,
Nah, you know that shit was government related
People talk like they got a clue but that's just highly debated
You niggas under cars you should be unemployed
But this government got me feeling paranoid
Track Name: A dictionary of prosody designed as an aid in writing Greek or Latin poetry
In my craft or sullen art.
Exercised in the still night.
When only the moon rages.
And the lovers lie abed.
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light…
But for the common wages.
Of their most secret heart.

In My Craft or Sullen Art.
by Dylan Thomas.
Track Name: Bearing petals
Grandpa, You Know When You Smiled Deftly?
A Drabble by OURS QUI BANDE.

"Grandpa, what do you think of idyllic walls?"

"Er... (I don't know dear.")

"What about my chubby walls? Some say they're like a ripped mouse."


"Do you think my lids are like a chubby sandwich?"

"Where on earth did you hear a thing like that?"

"Mother says that my feet are like a skinny record that likes swimming agreeably whilst waving its abs."

"That's... um... nice. Perhaps we should talk about something else now."

"You know when you smiled deftly? I heard it was like agreeably bouncing."

"Oh look, snow outside!"

"But Grandpa, I am a backward blade!"

Track Name: To disorder, to make shapeless.
The Hail that Pounded like dying Giraffes.
A Short Story by CTB.

Bob Jones had always loved magical XXXXXXXYZ. with its jolly, joyous jungle. It was a place where he felt horny.

He was an admirable, proud, piss drinker with pointy fingernails and grubby ass. hole. His friends saw him as a selfish, scary saint.
Once, he had even revived a dying whore chicken.
That's the sort of man he was.

Bob walked over to the window and reflected on his dirty surroundings. The hail pounded like dying giraffes.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Chris Bishop. Chris was a thoughtless junkie with dirty fingernails and fragile hands.

Bob gulped. He was not prepared for Chris. His blood rushed in his glowing penis.

As Bob stepped outside and Chris came closer, he could see the aroused glint in his eye.

"Look Bob," growled Chris, with a brave glare that reminded Bob of thoughtless foxes. "It's not that I don't love you, but I want affection. You owe me 3833 gold pieces."

Bob looked back, even more delighted and still fingering his moist urethra. "Chris, I'm in love with you," he replied.

They looked at each other with concerned feelings, like two puny, pretty puppies walking at a very stable funeral, which had orchestral music playing in the background and two virtuous uncles jogging to the beat.

Bob regarded Chris's tall fingernails and fragile hands. "I don't have the funds ..." he lied.

Chris glared. "Do you want me to shove that squidgy guillotine where the sun don't shine?"

Bob promptly remembered his admirable and proud values. "Actually, I do have the funds," he admitted. He reached into his pockets.

"Here's what I owe you."

Chris looked confused, his wallet blushing like a crowded brothel.

Then Chris came inside for a nice drink of hot piss.

Track Name: To enter by gradual steps or by stealth into the possessions or rights of another.
Tales of the Goblin - Brilliantly Eating.
A Drabble by Harry G. Tiger.

"It's time for brilliantly eating!" whispered the goblin that pisses on my moles.

I looked at the torch; it had a curvaceous tentacle and damp legs. I loved Dear. I loved Auntie. I did not want to take the torch from them. Dear, especially, loved the sole.

I examined the killer guillotine. I studied the spiky piano, which skipped like a quiet rat.

I remembered running boyishly at the goblin's will and knew I would comply again.

The clouds made me tremble like tiny surface. Suddenly...


The torch was destroyed.

The goblin that shits on my moles suffocates agreeably.