This is crack. Rock cocaine
It is kid stuff, and it can kill you
You risk dying
Look, everyone wants to be dead wrong

Veins collapse like brittle glass
Teeth rot black, lungs full of ash
Flesh peels back, nerves exposed
Rotting faster than a corpse decomposed

Feed the sickness, let it spread
Drag the soul where angels bled

Dead wrong! Breathe the plague
Hollow eyes, a severed fate
Dead wrong! Choke the swarm
Drown in filth, embrace the storm

Needle bites, the skin turns gray
Heart explodes, skulls decay
Bones dissolve in toxic flood
Guttering flames, drowning in mud

Fingers twitch in rigor’s grip
Laughter echoes, tongues are split

Dead wrong! Breathe the plague
Hollow eyes, a severed fate
Dead wrong! Choke the swarm
Drown in filth, embrace the storm

Huff the fumes, let the rot infest
Crack man laughs while death digests
Jaws unhinge, the marrow leaks
Endless night, the void now speaks

Bones are brittle, minds are torn
Beg for death but it won’t mourn
Sunk in waste, a broken pawn
Buried deep, forever gone

Sludge of flesh, a wasted breath
Beg for mercy, laugh at death

Dead wrong! Breathe the plague
Hollow eyes, a severed fate
Dead wrong! Choke the swarm
Drown in filth, embrace the storm


This Is Crack Cocaine

No Time to Die

Born in a truck bed, swaddled in a flag
Raised on diesel, chew, and unfiltered brags
Got a Bible in my glove box, a Glock in my jeans
And a bumper sticker longer than my self-esteem

I ain't scared of your facts or your fancy degrees
My truth's got boots, and it drinks antifreeze

I got a Trump Card, baby, tattooed on my chest
Ain’t about size, it’s about who screams best
Micropenis glory, still outranks your hog
'Cause freedom’s in my blood, not your Berkeley blog

I once wrestled guilt in a Waffle House stall
Shot a Bud Light can off a courthouse wall
I pledge allegiance with a barbecue stain
And if it ain't Trump, then we cancel the brain

Your Prius won’t tow what my morals can drag
And I iron my jorts with the Confederate flag

I got a Trump Card, baby, scratched into my truck
I may be short, but I vote like I’m fucked
Micropenis proud, with a nuclear gaze
Turnin’ liberal logic into mayonnaise

Call me toxic? That’s a compliment, son
I recycle rage and I chew it for fun
No need for ten pounds — I got precision and wrath
And a roadmap to heaven through a gas station bath

So take your textbooks and shove 'em in a yurt
I got ten commandments inked on my undershirt

I got a Trump Card, baby, and it fits in my pants
I vote with my fists and I square-dance with rants
Micropenis justice, sharp like a spade
Diggin’ graves for elites with a tailgate parade

Trump Card

Karma

Had a Cadillac, or maybe a Ford
With a trunk full o’ beans and a smorgasbord
The girl had legs like… what’s the word

Stilts?

And a laugh like a lawnmower chokin’ on guilt

She wore boots or heels — some kind of shoe
We met at… no wait, I think I dreamt that too

Chrome on the wheel and... my belt’s on wrong
We danced to the hum of a microwave song
She kissed me once and called me "Paul"
I think my name’s Billy… or maybe Saul?

Was it a microwave… or a blender...?

She rode in clean on a buffalo cart
Or a goat? No — a shopping cart
I gave her a rose, or some such yam
Then asked her politely to stroke my ham

She laughed so hard, spilled chili on her knees
I think… unless that was me?

Chrome on the wheel, forgot where we are
My keys in the freezer, my pants in the car
She winked at the moon, I winked at a tree
And proposed with gusto — or maybe a bee?

I once wrote a song 'bout her freckled caboose
Played it backwards, summoned a moose
She wore perfume made of bacon grease
Or maybe that was my niece?

She told me, “You’re nuts,” I said, “That’s fair”
Then combed spaghetti through my chest hair

Chrome on the wheel and nothin’ makes sense
I miss that gal and I hit a fence?
She left me a note, in mustard and jam
Said, “Thanks for the dance, —” 

Freckled Caboose

Ash on my boots, but my pants are gone
Creepin' through wreckage with my lotion on
All my friends are mutants, glistening green
But I got a bunker and a filthy machine

Click my Geiger, hear it whine
That ain’t danger—baby, that’s mine

Bustin’ makes you feel good
Even when the air ain't breathable
Bustin’ makes you feel good
In the ruins, it’s still achievable
Bustin’ makes you feel good
Radiation turns me seasonal
Bustin’ makes you feel good
I’m the last man strokin’ reasonable

Glow in the dark, with my jockstrap on
Peepin' through windows of a half-dead salon
Hot dog stand's melted, but my groove ain't
Pull the lever—release the restraint

Double-decker’s burnin' bright
But I still got some love tonight

Bustin’ makes you feel good
Even when the skyline’s vaporized
Bustin’ makes you feel good
While the fungus colonized
Bustin’ makes you feel good
Neon fluid’s in my eyes
Bustin’ makes you feel good
Self-love never truly dies

Got a doll made of tires and moss
She don’t judge and she don’t talk
Fleshlight made from a Pringles can
Call it "Hope," I’m a simple man

Sirens wail and missiles thud
But I’m in love with this irradiated mud

Bustin’ makes you feel good
Wasteland’s finest guilty treat
Bustin’ makes you feel good
Better than that mutant meat
Bustin’ makes you feel good
On this broken city street
Bustin’ makes you feel good
Even doom can’t beat this beat

Came for water, stayed for fun
Found some lube and a loaded gun
Fifty shades of fallout sun
Jackin’ it ‘til the war is won

I lost my mind, my pants, my name
But every stroke still feels the same

Bustin’ makes you feel good
Even when your fingers glow
Bustin’ makes you feel good
Let that toxic passion flow
Bustin’ makes you feel good
When there's nowhere else to go
Bustin’ makes you feel good
Now watch that mushroom grow

Bustin Makes You Feel Good

🧨 Reason is a raw eruption of doubt, defiance, and the search for something real in a world full of noise. Fueled by tight, aggressive riffs, groove-driven rhythms, and vocals that swing from vulnerable to vicious, this track tears through the silence with purpose. It’s about fighting for meaning when everything feels empty—and finding your voice in the chaos.

Drawing from the sludgy Southern grit of Corrosion of Conformity, the dark, heavy soul of Down, and the unrelenting groove of Pantera, Reason punches hard but hits deeper.

🧠 We all need a reason. This is ours. What’s yours?

🎧 Tags: #HeavyMetal #SouthernMetal #GrooveMetal #SludgeMetal #EmotionalMetal #Metal2025 #SoundCloudMetal #MetalVocals #MetalLyrics #COC #Down #PanteraVibes

🔥 Follow now—more music, more truth, and more heaviness coming soon.

Reason

Blacktop burning, boots hit the ground
Leather boys in a freedom-bound town
Patch on my back, haven't bathed in weeks
Stars, stripes, and steel between my cheeks

Grip that throttle, feel the pump
Saddle up hard for Donald J. Trump

Born to ride Donald J. Trump
Oiled and loud like a patriotic grump
Pure devotion, glistening pride
Beefcake gospel on the countryside

No helmet laws where we’re going, bro
Chest hair waving like Justin Trudeau
Tight jeans hugging, engines whine
Submission's fine when the powers align

Big rigs kneel when we emerge
Stars and torque in leather surge

Born to ride Donald J. Trump
Fuel-fed faith in a sovereign lump
We mount the beast with joy and glee
This ain’t a cult—it’s sacred plea

Chain grease tattooed on our thighs
One nation under MAGA eyes
Respect the patch, or kiss the street
Donald's my church
my king
my meat

We bend for no man for the pump
Except one name: Donald J. Trump

Born to ride Donald J. Trump
Leather tight, with a liberty bump
Flags in flames and handlebar bliss
Freedom's kiss with a MAGA twist

We ain't just bikers—we stand erect
Each throttle twist affirms our sect
Groomed my moustache, groomed my kid
Lubed my b-hole for Donald's Toad dick

Shine that chrome till justice thumps
All roads lead to Donald J. Trump

Born to ride Donald J. Trump
Beard oil sourced from toxic waste dump
We kiss the Toad, salute The Don
And ride ‘til our democracy's gone

Born to Ride Donald J. Trump

Boots in mud, they roll in thick
Grease-stained vests and tactics slick
Crinkle-cut fries in thermal packs
Night vision fogs from gravy snacks

Storm the shed, then take a seat,
'Cause tactical boys need something to eat

Corman Park Gravy Seals, deployed at dawn
Stuck in a doorway, but marching on
Napping in fields where the wild dogs squeal
This is the mission. This is the meal

Four-man stack at the chicken hut
One got wedged in the drive-thru rut
Whispers crackle on the comms with pride
"Target secure—large fries, extra side"

Gear weighs heavy, but spirits soar,
They breached the shack, then snored on the floor

Corman Park Gravy Seals in stealthy waddle
Recon complete at the syrup bottle
Dropping from choppers into cow fields surreal
This is the tactic. This is the meal

Obstacle course? They made it two feet
Extraction was called from a booster seat
Grenades of cheese curds, napalm brown
The only threat is the ketchup clown

Tactical snooze beneath a swing
Fatigue is part of the whole darn thing

Corman Park Gravy Seals in formation slump
Shaped like barrels and built to thump
Thunder rolls from their rolling meal
This is the doctrine. This is the seal

Tactical pants in a tactical bind
Breach the fridge, leave no fries behind
Under the slide where operations start
Dreams are briefed with cheese in heart

Velcro screams as they shift in place
Air support’s late with the snack case

Corman Park Gravy Seals roll in deep
Through canola fields where children sleep
Mission complete with a gravy wheel
This is the legend. This is the seal


Corman Park Gravy Seals

No tool could make such a tear in the boards. No storm strong enough. Whatever passed through left splinters pointing inward.

Where the Fence Splits

Graduated from Corman Park College of Dental Numismatics in 1993, with a graduate degree in Experimental Post-Sludge.

mchorsebones@gmail.com

🎭 JOKER’S REVENGE 🎭
Heavy riffs. No apologies. All-out war on the weak.

Born from the chaos of distorted strings and broken sticks, Joker’s Revenge is a savage assault of hard-hitting riffs, thunderous drums, and raw, venom-spitting vocals. We don’t follow trends—we burn them to the ground. Fueled by grit, sweat, and the kind of attitude that gets you banned from the airwaves, we’re here to drag modern rock back into the pit where it belongs.

If you’re looking for overproduced radio trash, keep scrolling.
If you want blood, sweat, and riffs that'll crack your f***ing spine—
Welcome to the show.

🔊 Crank it. Share it. Scream it.
🎸 New music dropping regularly. Stay loud. Stay reckless.

Germerican Badass combining traditional Country Rock music with modern elements of todays listening habits.

New tracks tagged #southern metal