CHOKE (Little Pickle Town)

Where The Watermelons Rot Full song

Where the watermelon rot/ tiktok(full)

we're taking self love to a whole new level

Person In The Mirror

Acapella version of 'Parachute'-
To get that ear worm fed until the final version is out!

Parachute Acapella

Parachute by Liel Bar-Z (Acapella Version)

uh oh, don't you know? you're not welcome round here

You're Not Welcome

Cannibal

Unsweetened Lemonade

All lyrics and conceptual material herein are authored, composed, produced, and recorded by Lance Thomas Davidson.
© 2025 Lance Thomas Davidson. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced or adapted without written consent.
Part 2 may be construed or interpreted as artistic inference.

Epstein Island – The Hidden Truth (Part 2 – There Are No Files to Fact-Check)

There are no files — not now, not then,
No drawers to pull, no paper, no pen.
No folders marked, no dusty stacks,
Only mirrored drives and barcode tracks.
No filing rooms with walls of steel,
Just humming cores where secrets reel.

The record lives in captured light,
CCTV by day and night.
Each frame stamped clear with time and name,
Exact by code or alias claim.
Flight itineraries, refueling notes,
Manifests lined like banker’s quotes.
Every handoff, gate, and date,
Logged and stored by digital fate.
Like pro-grade ledgers counting gold,
Every transaction’s line is told.

Those files were strong, yet weak within,
Guarded by code but careless sin.
The same soft key from his New York townhouse,
Unlocked the vaults, mouse to mouse.
Reused password, simple, plain,
Opened vaults of hidden chain.
No mystery loss, no system fail,
Just lazy locks on a living trail.

Dozens and dozens of gold bars stored,
Kilo-weighted, ledger-scored.
$17–20 million more,
In gilded fixtures behind each door.
Toilets, faucets, handles, knobs,
Dripping wealth through install jobs.
Golden sinks and marble veins,
Reflected power and hidden chains.
Hundreds of watches rare and fine,
Missing pieces from the line.
Rolex, Patek, Cartier brace,
Vanished quiet without a trace.
Cold wallets sleeping since 2011,
Keys at rest in data heaven.

From island sand to New York interrogation jam,
They pressed for keys, for proof of scam.
But passwords kept or never told,
Would guard the truth, both hot and cold.
For any cold wallet could still appear,
The same in shape, the same veneer.
Buy one online, box it tight,
Swap the proof beneath the light.
Lock it in with evidence tags,
Claim it sealed in federal bags.
But the crypto held was gone before,
The real one taken through another door.

Then came August, the lights went dim,
A cell door closed on the truth of him.
“He took his life,” the press release read,
A “convenient” night with a witness dead.
No review board, no inquest call,
Just echoes down a marble hall.
The records sealed, the vaults remained,
But questions hung unexplained.

San Juan Field — boots on ground,
Tagged each crate, each vault they found.
Only a handful crossed that span,
From raid report to questioning plan.
No I-A probe, no written word,
No oversight was ever heard.
Within 5 years those agents quit,
Filed retirement, and that was it.

Then came claims of crypto gains,
Cousins and in-laws linked by chains.
Cold wallets found with timing tight,
Billions surfaced out of sight.
Reports of injuries faded fast,
No discipline, the storm had passed.
The same few names in whispers tied,
To field men who’d once stood inside.

And just like troops from Saddam’s reign,
With palace spoils in hidden chain —
Golden pistols, lion heads,
Silk-lined cases beneath their beds.
They carried pieces they’d never show,
Too costly bright for the world to know.
Same impulse running through the years,
Greed and silence, twins of fears.

San Juan vaults still hum unseen,
Each crate logged neat, each barcode clean.
5 years gone, the trail grew thin,
Yet digital proof still sings within.
CCTV frames remain,
Timestamps etched in data chain.
Proof exists, precise, intact,
Yet no one dares to call it fact.

There are no files — no drawers, no racks,
But evidence lives in digital tracks.
Exact by name or code name thin,
Weak keys guard the wealth within.
Cold wallets wake, their balances spin,
Bloodline wealth reclaims the sin.
No paper myth, no vanished bin,
Just chosen eyes that won’t look in.
And while the world thinks proof ran thin,
The data hums — the truth within.

