i will crash another day i think

This ain’t a town.
It’s a showroom for ghosts.
Every July, they march ‘em down Main Street.
Every other day?
They beat the living.

[Verse 1]

Welcome to Deep River, the land of the masked,
Where they dress up their hate in colonial drag.
They call it a muster, but I see the spell
Summoning the past like it never fell.

Little Black boy, caught on the news,
White fists swingin’ while the town hits snooze.
No charges, no justice, just silence and spin,
Another name buried, another fake ass grin.

They praise tradition, but tradition was once whips and chains,
Handed down with the muskets, soaked in the pain.
Beyond fucking songs and pageants, it’s systemic decay,
It's neighbors not mind their fucking business, But smile at you on parade day.


---

[Hook]

We don’t march to your fucking muster.
We don’t kneel in your pews.
You rehearse death in parades
We resurrect the truth.

Genetified racism in colonial threads,
Fake liberalism, smiles with their boots on our heads.
This town is not alive, it just holds its breath
Welcome to Deep River, rehearsal for death.

 [In mocking whispers] “shhhhhh, you're too loud”


---

[Verse 2]

Fire commissioners swing fists like badges of God,
Then get handshakes and hush-ups, not cuffs from the squad.
Good ol’ boys club, stitched tight with denial,
 I see the cracks though, we been watching awhile.

Oh, and that “inclusive” shop for the neuro divine?
All Nest up
Funny how y’all love us ‘til we speak our mind.
You parade our pain like a quirky trait,
But treat us like threats if we won’t placate.

Autistic? You mean exploitable.
Neurodivergent? You mean marketable.
Till we break the mirror and shout back the truth
That you only love difference when it can’t bruise you.

[Bridge]

[Soft voice]
They say,
“It’s not that deep.”
But I’ve seen the boy bleed.
I’ve seen them cheer drums and ignore the screams.
I’ve seen hands shakes, and covered sin like linen.
They don’t want peace. They want compliance.
No peace for the have done sending, just Defiance


[Final Hook]

We don’t march to your muster.
We don’t kneel in your pews.
You rehearse death in parades
We resurrect truth.


Genetified racism in colonial threads,
Fake liberalism, smiles with their boots on our heads.
This town is not alive, it just holds its breath
Welcome to Deep River—rehearsal for death.

 [In mocking whispers] “shhhhhh, you're too loud”


This ain’t no fucking folk song.
This is exposure, Your Hope's gone
The mirror mind burning your flags with memoriee
We’re the vengeance of existence, victims of racist felonies 

[Outro]

[Spoken – low and clear, dry mic, no reverb. Voice calm but menacing.]
Truth doesn’t march.
It haunts.
[Repeat line with slow fade-in whisper layers, each one more distorted:]
It haunts.
It haunts.
It haunts.

[Pause – 2 seconds of silence. Then voice returns, sharp, biting tone—close mic, slight distortion:]
Deep River, Connecticut…
Don’t be fooled by its beautiful landscape.

[]

Their shiny new fire trucks and pleasantries That are faked.

[Beat]
It’s a land where tradition's held, and served with home-baked 

[Sudden glitch cut. Final word “hate” whispered, stretched, reversed, then played forward:]
 HATE

The Muster of Ghosts

I'm not a Sith, I am the Split. The Facture they feared, but couldn't Predict.

ust!, ust08, ust, UST, uuusssttt!,

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