QACHINA

Keep Calm

So picture this: it's dawn, but not the gentle kind. Sun's punching through storm clouds, all bruised purple, and you're in this beat-up pickup rattling down Route Whatever-the adversary's highway, the one every billboard screams is faster. Phone's got one bar, GPS keeps rerouting you into construction zones where cranes swing like pendulums over half-dug graves. Signs everywhere: NO DUMPING painted over so many times the letters bleed red on white. You pass a landfill, mountains of trash twitching with crows, and some kid's on the shoulder selling flowers wrapped in newspaper obituaries. He's yelling prices like prayers-Three bucks! Three bucks for forget-me-nots!-but you don't have exact change. That's the world's road. It's the one everyone swears leads somewhere, but every mile marker's off by ten. Then, left turn, unmarked. No signpost, no cone, just this dirt pull-off that's somehow smooth under your tires. Grass gives way to gravel, then nothing-just packed earth, golden, warm. No potholes. Like someone graded it with a carpenter's level and a promise. Flowers? Everywhere. Not the kind from that kid, wilting already. These are wild: purple thistle laughing at the wind, white lilies nodding like they're in on a secret, and-get this-aromatic herbs you swear smell like Sabbath incense. You're driving, windows down, and the air feels... edited. Clean. Like static's been scrubbed off creation. Now here's the thing-God's road doesn't look like anything. If you flew over it'd just be a seam between fields, maybe a deer trail. But up close? It's engineered down to the atom. Stones fit like mosaic. Birds don't even swerve around your headlights; they land on the hood, chirp once, fly off-like toll collectors who forgot to charge. And the hills? Gentle swells, not the roller-coaster drops back on the interstate. Every rise lets you see further, but not so far you're lost-just enough to catch the next valley, then the next, like chapters in a book you didn't know you were reading. You're thinking: Wait, this can't be real. That's the trap. The adversary's web? It thrives on realism. His exits are labeled SUCCESS, SECURITY, MORE. Yours? Blank. But that's the point. The Tanakh-yeah, I know, you said Aramaic Renewed Covenant-talks about a highway in the desert, right? Isaiah: A highway shall be there... and it shall be called the Holy Way. No lion, no ravenous beast. Only the redeemed walk it. And here's the punch: it was built before stars. Before let there be light, the blueprint was already poured. That's why it doesn't crack. Time's just a tourist here. Up ahead, bridge. Not concrete-living wood, like the planks grew out of the riverbank. You cross, and on the other side: oasis, but not kitschy. Real. Palm roots clutching stone like they're gossiping. A spring bubbles, water so clear it shows the sky upside-down-same clouds, same sun, but purer. You splash your face; tastes like memory. Your grandpa's farm before the bank took it. First kiss under a fig tree. Sabbath candles flickering off brass kiddush cups. You laugh-actually laugh-because the road didn't give that back. It just never let you lose it. But wait-shadow. Up in the treeline. Something watching. Not threatening, just... curious. Could be angel, could be wind in leaves. Doesn't matter. On this road, fear's been demoted to weather report. You keep going. Miles stretch, but not tedious. Every turn, new detail: wild grapes dangling like they want to be wine, stones etched with names you almost remember-Abraham, Hagar, Zipporah-like graffiti from prophets. Night falls, but it's friendly. Stars crowd low, no light pollution. You park, engine off, and hear... nothing. Or everything: cicadas like kazoos, river whispering psalms, your own pulse syncing to something older. Phone? Dead. GPS? Never mattered. You don't need coordinates; the road's got its own gravity. Pulls you forward even asleep. 

Desert Highway

(Explicit Language)

I created this and several other songs after watching the heinous story of a mother and her children being jumped by a bunch of bad ass children, her son's bullies 💔 😢. So I spoke out and written out lyrics from my thoughts of seeing several outlets speaking on the incident 💔 😢. 

[Lyrics]

[Spoken Word]
Fuck them kids
Shit
They need to get what they deserve and fuck they parents too
Mothafuckers, you never raised your children right
They want to be outside putting hands on a grown woman
And her son
And you pulled the little baby's hair 
Nah, you mothafuckers don't fight fair
You sons of bitches deserve everything that's coming to you
And fuck that school district too
The mother said she been reaching out to you
For over two, for two years because her son been getting bullied
Chicago 
What the fuck is going on?
The warning shot's coming
Let's get it on
Where's the apology at?
Is the apology in the room?
Y'all mothafuckers gonna get swept away
Pass me the broom
Time to get it 
It's time to get it on
Haven't you heard
 "If you can't feed your baby" (Yeah, yeah)
"Then don't have a baby" (Yeah, yeah)
"And don't think maybe" (Yeah, Yeah)
"If you can't feed your baby" (Yeah Yeah)
Now that's Michael Jackson
telling you if your not capable of raising up a child right, then don't be out here having any children 
But you didn't listen naw, naw instead you out here birthing these little monsters 
Hell you wanna be startin' somethin' huh
They got be startin' somethin'
(Mmm hmm) that's it
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree
can you hear me
do you care (do you care)
No fake apologies on the internet screen 
please none of that
Attention seeking aunties, fuck you too
You said you were there, but didn't step in to stop those little bastards (At All)
Naw you said it was none of your business,
Bitch are you not grown!?
Do you know right from wrong?
The fuck really going on!?
I know times are rough out here,
having bad ass children will only make it rougher (Real talk)
The School systems are a fucking joke too,
How a woman, a mother, a parent who
tries to reach out, for two years
and y'all never contacted her back
The fuck!? her son was being bullied 
You sons of bitches,
 but obviously you don't care, 
naw you don't care 
When them lawsuits start flooding in 
I bet you'll care or your ass will be up outta there, shit because other parents are now coming out saying those little monsters be terrorizing the neighborhood 
Their parents are about to be held accountable for their actions 
Sounds like law
Should've been established back in 1999
In the time of Columbine
Shit like that never leaves my mind 
Parents be more responsible for your children 
Raise them right (raise 'em right)
So they can be a light in this world
That goes for every boy and girl
But if you fell to do so
There will be no sympathy for you 
or your kids
 (Fuck them kids)
If you know better, do better
 (Fuck them kids)
There's enough darkness in this world 
(Fuck Them kids)
We don't need any more little monsters 
boy or girl (Fuck Them Kids)
Little Monsters (Fuck Them Kids)
Little Monsters (Fuck Them Kids)
Little Monsters (Fuck Them Kids)
Little Monsters (Fuck Them Kids)
Little Monsters (Fuck Them Kids)
Little Monsters (Fuck Them Kids)
Little Monsters (Fuck Them Kids)

[Instrumental Outro]

©️ Ace-Arcadia Music 2025



Little Monsters (Fuck Them Kids) (Definitive Mix)

In the Grace of Your Love

It Takes Time to Be a Man

As If

Lucy Mongoosey

Dozen Draft - Hello Hammerheads (Caribou cover)

Upcoming Live (yes...live) date(s):

Sept 15 2021 - Brooklyn, NY @ Elsewhere Rooftop w/Jennifer Vanilla
(tix: https://dice.fm/event/8won5--chk-chk-chk-jennifer-vanilla-15th-sep-elsewhere-rooftop-new-york-tickets)

!!! is Nic Offer, Mario Andreoni, Dan Gorman, Rafael Cohen, Chris Egan, feat. Meah Pace

Management: Brian Long brian@knittingfactorymgmt.com
UK, Europe & ROW: international@warprecords.com
Booking No & So America: Karl Morse karl@arrivalartists.com
Booking EUR & JP: Rick Morton rick@blowuplive.com
Booking Rest of World: management@chkchkchk.net

Lucy Mongoosey

Chk Chk Chk (!!!)

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