The so-called “tradition” that thrives on thoughtlessness is nothing but revolting. The fact that something has lasted long, or that it’s considered normal, is no reason to preserve it. Unless it can be explained rationally, a tradition is merely a bad habit that deserves to disappear. The most absurd example of this is the so-called royalty — national parasites living off the state.

Confide in Me Remix (Kylie Minogue)

Will Young released this tune in 2003. Performed here by me on my Yamaha PSR-SX900 arranger keyboard. Can you "Name That Tune"?

I have a website that contains my complete collection of tunes with their titles revealed at: www.harveytwyman.com

Name That Tune #558 by Will Young

LIGHT

Gone

[Lyrics]

“Step right up, folks, it’s that time of year,
the 208th Excrement Rain of Cheer.
Last year the prudes shut it all down—
muttered ‘cholera’ and ‘sickening town’.
But the Heritage Club stood proud and tall,
crying, ‘Two hundred years, we cannot let it fall!’
The ministry smiled, said, ‘We’ll co-sponsor the stink—
public funds for the glory of this holy brink.’”

You wrap your madness in a history bow,
call it “heritage” so you never outgrow.


Holy legacy, holy cack,
if you can’t say why, then it is not.
Tradition’s just an alibi you wear to dodge the thought—
is it needed or not? That’s the only shot.
If all it gives is plague and pride,
let the “sacred custom” choke and die.



Old men polishing a sewage crown,
“Without this rite, our town breaks down.”
They spray perfume on septic years,
drown the stench in patriotic tears.
“Look, the state believes in our cause,
they pay the bills, they clap, they pause.”
But power loves a circus ring—
keep the herd distracted, they won’t change a thing.

You call it culture, but it’s just decay,
a fossil with a PR day.


Holy legacy, holy cack,
if you can’t say why, then it is not.
Tradition’s just an alibi for cowards scared of thought—
is it needed or not? Answer that or rot.
If all it spreads is filth and shame,
stop engraving it with your father’s name.



Children cough in the holy fog,
flies make halos in the bog.
“Hold your nose and clap on three—
this is our identity.”
You pass infection like a flag,
call it “roots” while futures sag.
“Since our elders bathed in waste,
we must keep the sacred taste.”

Pain in costume is still just pain,
a curse that marches down the chain.


Holy legacy, holy cack,
if you can’t say why, then it is not.
Tradition’s just an alibi when reason’s gone to pot—
is it needed or not? That’s the only plot.
If all it does is chain the young,
let that anthem leave your tongue.



If you stripped the word “tradition” from this scene,
you’d call it madness, not “our dream”.
If it started now, you’d scream and run,
but stamp it “old” and it’s suddenly fun.
“Always” is the laziest law,
“we’ve always done it” is rot in the core.
Necessity is the only plea—
everything else is coward’s decree.

Ritual without reason is a cage in disguise,
a corpse on a throne, wearing yesterday’s eyes.


Holy legacy, holy cack,
if you can’t say why, then it is not.
Ask one question: “Who is healed? Who is hurt? Who is bought?”
Is it needed or not? That’s the final shot.
Burn the script that poisons breath,
let dead customs meet their death.


What matters is will and what future you feed—
never worship chains,
never crown a rotten deed.

Legacy of Sacred

Waitin 4 Ya

Cinnamon rising
Windows fog
Oven humming low
like it's half on the job

Flour on the counter
flour in her hair
He brushes it off
like he meant to be there

Butter sizzles
Pan clicks shut
Radio crackles
through static and cut

She taps the spoon twice
tastes what's left on her lip
He sneaks a bite
before the sugar can drip

Rolling pin stutters
Table creaks
Dough keeps sticking
every few streaks

She presses harder
he steadies the board
No big talk,
nothing forced

Orange peel. Ginger
Sharp, then sweet
Steam curls around
their legs and feet

He burns his thumb
she blows on his hand
Sting goes quiet
No plan

Cut-out stars
with crooked sides
Trees leaning over
like they're tired

A gingerbread loses a leg
she laughs at the fall
He eats the piece
like that was the goal

The oven breathes heat
Slow. Thick
Cookies lift at the edges
getting glossy, quick

Sugar turns amber
The room turns warm
Spice in the air
like a quiet storm

They frost too soon
The icing runs
She tries to fix it
he says it's done

Ghost-shaped snowflake
Crooked hat man
They let the mess be
just what it can

The cat jumps up
nose to the tray
Sniffs a star cookie
knocks it away

It lands on the floor
icing smudged thin
She curls around it
purring like it's her kin

Cooling racks ticking
Kettle starts to sing
Steam climbs slowly
fogging everything

No need for words
The room already knows
They share the first cookie
before it cools

Cinnamon Rising (feat. cat cameo)

Acid (pr0d, rayday).

This track is about what it feels like to be in a relationship and arguing.
The is the pre production version of the track . Thank you for taking the time to listen.

ARGUMENT

still working on the track before full distribution.

Love me right

rl grime - street sweeper (4cast bootleg)

All songs are released into the public domain. 
Please feel free to download them.
No need to credit me, and you're even free to sell it if you like.
Hmm, but if you like it, I would love for you to help infected&spread my songs!
Link Free.  feel free to expose it anywhere you like.

I am a bacterium with mycolic acid on its surface.
I will damage your lungs.
And..... Smash commercialism.

Legacy of Sacred

Mycobacterium Tuberculo

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