Written By: Destiny Rae Tiefenauer
Performed by: DeeRayeMuse
This track embraces a heavier, more grounded texture. It features slow, distorted bass frequencies and thick synth chords layered over a muddy, down-tempo beat.
Lyrics
(Verse 1)
Fluorescent bulb flickers over the sink
Copper taste heavy, too numb to think
Rusty spoon bubbling, blackening soot
Scabbing the track lines deep in the foot
Squeezing the plunger, the backwash is brown
Watching the human melt into the town
Skin turning gray like a wet paper bag
Coughing up bile on a greasy red rag.
(Chorus)
It’s a meat grinder market, a rot in the bone
Selling slow death through a cracked telephone
They strip off your skin just to measure the weight
Feasting like maggots on everyone’s plate
No honor, no crown, just a wet, heavy thud
The dope game is built on a mountain of mud.
(Verse 2)
The shadows are stretching across the floor
A hollowed-out echo behind every door
Memory fading like smoke in the air
Reaching for nothing but cold, dark despair
The clock on the wall has forgotten the time
The ladder is broken, no reason to climb
Each shadow is heavy, each promise is thin
Losing the battle beneath your own skin.
(Chorus)
It’s a meat grinder market, a rot in the bone
Selling slow death through a cracked telephone
They strip off your skin just to measure the weight
Feasting like maggots on everyone’s plate
No honor, no crown, just a wet, heavy thud
The dope game is built on a mountain of mud.
(Bridge)
The mirrors are shattered, the vision is blurred
Silence is louder than any last word
Left in the corner where no light can reach
The lessons that only the darkness can teach
The names are forgotten, the faces are gone
Just another ghost waiting for a gray dawn.
(Outro)
Turn the key.
Lock the gate.
Cold reality.
Left to fate.
Just a shadow fading away.
The cycle continues another day.
(Chorus)
It’s a meat grinder market, a rot in the bone
Selling slow death through a cracked telephone
They strip off your skin just to measure the weight
Feasting like maggots on everyone’s plate
No honor, no crown, just a wet, heavy thud
The dope game is built on a mountain of mud.