Get all 16 Slave Beaver Revolt releases available on Bandcamp and save 35%.
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1. |
Nefarious Dude
03:17
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Raised in the laneways in a haze of petrol glue and paint, let the nude image satiate the lustful gaze of the ingrates, the stench of semen and sweat whet the appetite like what he saw as a kid in that rosarch test, administered by the same institution which molests in myriad ways his own kind, in the back of his own mind that ink blot spreads, through the grey matter whenever he sees red; the black Jesus a symbol worn around his neck, like a crucifix; how many burning crosses had he seen affixed to niggers as a kid? How many stoned with red bricks, like those in which lived; demolished by the same bulldozers he longed to drive as a grownup, but he knew even then his future held only a suffering that never ends, in that butterfly, black dahlia or sundered dog’s skull, his life contained the empathetic gore flowing in a dull incontinence of pathetic whores paid for by existential wars, IBS indistinguishable from IEDs, the plague spreads between the neurons and electronic firing in his head, and even then through heterochromatic lenses, his heterosexual urges were rendered at a young age, that he could see in the mirror, like an inkblot, the red and blue flashing, a premonition of his own demise like the gnashing teeth of the black dog, it was then he swore he’d forsake himself, become a suburban balrog, in the aching interstitial cracks of the concrete, like the vaginal passage parted by his own rebirth; on this cursed earth, he’d fester with the weak, an unnoticed malignancy, and cannibalise his own kind, for the sake of his own black Christian supremacy.
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2. |
song 2/part 2 (duology)
03:53
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Sand nigga
Lives are wrote-learnt
Our lives are just words
We’re all just insects encased in amber.
Full Sunkist on St. Kilda beach
Swig; crush the can at my feet
Sand in my socks, sand in my shoes
Sand hot, promenade the beach.
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3. |
The Lady and the Baron
04:35
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This is the ballad
Of the lady and the baron…
One night on the beat of the streets of Mammon
Jesus Murphy saw a lady being beaten by the baron of hell
Like a manifestation of Satan, he tasted the dregs on his breath
As the baron began to amputate the lady’s left breast; the swelling,
exposed flesh like salmon as he unholstered his baton and the baron paused, and the lady saw
In the corner of her eye his hesitation, and snatched from the baron’s bedazzled fist,
All glittering gold, the scalpel and cut off one horn, one of two marks of the beast of old,
While all around them the helpless condemned continued to feast and to smoulder;
Bowls of sulphur sauce poured over their souvlakis, vendors grilling the prostitute’s in an insatiable hunger—
But the baron caught his amputated horn as it fell, and Jesus Murphy and the baron
Fought horn to baton over the lady, on the streets of mammon, in hell!
Then Jesus Murphy started to notice
Satan’s horn begin to grow back,
While in the background Isis
Strapped a suicide bomb to George bush
And it finally clicked in his head,
So he asked the devil am I dead?
And the devil nodded, then said
We’re in cyber hell, consumed by binary code
My name is John, because I dwell
In usury toads, don juans and all mankind;
Your fate is universal, but few notice it, the nihilists
Grow out of it at some stage, their youthful awareness
Dwindles, we all grow into our parents and kindle
The next generation ‘s bondage,
And we call this coming of age emancipation;
So Jesus Murphy asked, then am I child?
As he saw a furry begin to fuck a cosplayer in the next aisle
Of cyber hell, a shopping centre for dissenters and Southern Bells
Who forgot to emancipate their human stock,
And the devil replied, no you are not—
Some are lucky, or unlucky enough, to notice the shepherd leading the human flock,
That’s me, by the way, the one free man, or so the nihilists say
Let me put it to you another way, first you saw the horns
And like a newborn opened your eyes,
Then you saw the regrowth and awoke in a daze,
Your post-cyber gaze cast out all lies in 40 days,
And 40 nights, or 40 seconds of mortal combat with the devil in the pale moonlight;
Now you have a choice, as all woke do, from Jaydan Smith
To the atheists on YouTube, like the maidenhead myth
Your blood will pay your dues, you can wander awoken in hell
Or turn off your modem, and cease to exist, no more than a glitch
Your conception the shifting pitch of 56k,
Well when you put it like that, I suppose I’ll stay, look at the way I use my baton,
Put me to work, and I’ll beat this throbbing throng of human flesh
Into the one vessel off hobbling, mongolied men, if you’re the shepherd
I’ll be your dog and staff, I’ll flog the chaff into wheat,
I’ll lead the chattel into battle, from which will grow
The saplings of another age, I’ll raise the low, and raze the high
I’ll be glad to die at your side, take me in your hellfire fist
Satan, crush my body like earth into the womb of a new world’s birth, and make me your fiery bitch!
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Slave Beaver Revolt Melbourne, Australia
Odd music for odd folks from odder folks.
Banjohmin:
Vocals/Music
BTWK:
Vocals/Music
John:
Vocals/Music
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