Amen
Gun of a Preacher Man

THE REVIEW

You need to get the hell out.
I want the desert in front of my eyes, you should turn green and vaporize.
You're here around, voicing your opinions, trying to get your way, but from here those four words will always come: you need to get the hell out. There's neither space nor time for everyone. You are dragging down the system, suffocating it with your presence and little ideas that rest on the perineum, traversing the entire disgust of the asshole, and sticking like pins on my coccyx. Out: get the hell out.

At this point, I should start saying something about the album, but I haven't even picked the album yet. Because I can. Just like you could if you were motivated by something more than showing how big you have it. Even if it were big, one might understand, but with that thing, my exes use it to pick parsley from their teeth. I spit on you and on all my exes. Bile and infected blood.
If I hit you in the eye, you'll stop being a zombie.
And take your fangs off my scrotal sack: it's useless that you continue looking confused for something your eyes can latch onto: it will be randomly chosen, at the last minute, and it'll be fine because there are those who can and those who need to get the hell out.
Actually, folks, you know something: since you won't leave, I'll excuse myself: Amen, Gun Of a Preacher Man. People who knew how and when to get the hell out.