Broadway
Let's workshop a rough draft of a very fucked up horrorcore song from the Beacon Speaks album
Braodway
Verse 1
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Hook 1
Up to you ultimately nothing is (All of us)
Even when you succeed in quitting opiates
Up to you ultimately nothing is (All of us)
Even when you save a child from a lunatic
Verse 2
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Hook 2
Up to you ultimately nothing is (All of us)
Even when you admit that you’re a hypocrite
Up to you ultimately nothing is (All of us)
Even when you add mayo to the tuna fish
Al(b)though it sits blasphemous with holy writ, (b)up to you ultimate-ly (b)nothing is, neither bully fits nor coaxing chicks, Kindergarten Kimmy Schmidts, back to the crib pullied with ba(b)nana splits—sometimes ^solely with “Your mommy’s sick" <stretch out>, dis(b)armed by the baseball cap and Spalding mit—that whole (b)homely bit. Home (b)Dolby equipped for that Moana flick, even wooden-model race car Tonka kits. Mari(b)janna lit. King (b)Cobra can crsscch “You wanna a sip?” Ticklin her tende(b)roni pits, saying “Can I ^get a little nosey pinch, a little nosey kiss?” but picturing sis ^drilled with his Ryobi bit. Panties—we all ^know what they’d be sullied with. (b)Slowly switch a groaning wince ^“mmmmm” clothing ripped exposing ribs “yeah” (b)surprised to find pepperoni nips. What about that new Nintendo Switch “yeah (b)only if” quote (suggestive, not moving lips)“you stroke this dick.” (b)Somehow she knew to add some (b)foamy spit. Twist twist twist ^til he said “blow me bitch. (teeth-clenched mean)Throat! And don’t give me those phony licks.” (b)Chokey inch by inch (b)throaty hiss when (b)mostly in “Glauarg” you know she pissed. (B)Jizz drippin to her pink Sauconey kicks. (b)up to you ultimate-ly nothing is. This (b)goes even when you go fully in, wholly sober in ^oldie-hit (b)plaza strips on some (b)inconspicuous John Ma(b)honey tip. Bo(b)logna stiff watchin for lonely vics, yoking lil homie quick by (b)bony hips, Mowgli lift to stop those (b)below knee kicks, that (b)Mick Foley grip to Castig^lioni that lip, for pedestrians (b)“friggin kids.” Wholly ^cognizant (b)and unlit, that means (b)no cigarettes dipped or dust sniffed—still (b)never do ^you deserve (b)punishment. No that (b)doesn’t mean ^only acquit. Wise it might still (b)be to convict. A bid (b)keeps your ass away from prepubescent tits. Deterrence too per^haps from acting (b)on that itch. Still up to you ultimate-ly nothing is. Here’s iceberg-tip proof lowkey slick. Its im(b)plicit in ^art works like Moby Dick. Let o stand ^in for spritzin (b)Aqua Net down the (b)throat of some ^half-wit you babysit. For the (b)sake of the ^argument that o’s ^up to you we (b)will permit. Of course you (b)must’ve chipped in to giving (b)rise to it and of (b)what you contributed (b)up to you must be at (b)least a smidge. (b)“z”’s what we’ll call that bit. Again, ^playing devil’s advocate that z’s (b)up to you ^is something (b)we’ll permit. Of course you (b)must’ve chipped in to giving (b)rise to it and of (b)what you contributed up to you must be at (b)least a smidge. (b) ‘y’’s what we’ll call that bit. But since you didn’t cause your(b)self to exist, with you in (b)uterus—just the (b)size of a stitch—this regressive list goes back un(b)til it quits. This (b)piece of grit of which (b)you consist ^gene script—neither ^it nor (b)what it emits, wiggle shift—is ^up to you in (b)any sense. The be(b)ginning assumption then is a(b)bsurd as shit. Of (b)all that factors ^in to making (b)o happen the (b)cause of none of ^them are you the (b)buckstopping. Hence, up to you ultimate-ly nothing is. Phone me (b)up if you want somethin more legit or better yet read my work in print. To find the ^Ist, type “Determinist ^scholarship.”
<1 bar of cuts: sample “word?”>
Hook 3
Up to you ultimately nothing is (All of us)
Even when you reminisce on that moonlit tryst
Up to you ultimately nothing is (All of us)
Even (b)feminine grit ^in the midst of hardship
Anthem theme for the album