I can say exactly what I mean. We're a sad excuse for what was foreseen. The fodder overrun the streets with filthy hands, drag their mules through the paths the less fortunate have paved. Bleed them dry. Bleed them for all they're worth. I'm just looking for another notch on my belt. We don't see eye to eye with my face down in the dirt. Unkept flaunting every last conquest. Coward, pull yourself out. Well I've been everywhere you've been, through all those hollows. When all is bleak I'll be waiting. I'll take it all back with the coldest of stares. It was all that we had but you filled your days with self-adoration. You remind me there's not much to hold onto. We were the weakest of the herd just waiting to be picked off. The consolation prize; the town whore dolled up for a politician's hotel room.
from Presents: Mother Tongue
released August 2, 2013
Written and performed by 1876.
Recorded/Engineered by Brandon Wiard at Backseat Productions.
Mixed by Adam Cox at Brooksfield Gentlemen's Club.
Mastered by Alan Douches at West West Side Music.
all rights reserved