Mankind's OWN NWO Title
Lyrics
[Intro - Breathy, delayed prophetic whisper over a deep, hypnotic, hallucinogenic didgeridoo groove and slow-panning synth pads. No drums.]
Nine... six... three...
(air-th... oh-wt... ee-no...)
Wake up, Mankind...
This is your time.
Take back your silenced voice.
Remove your mask...
and Climb!
Verse 1
The Ego is the title you’re told to take claim,
A Gold-Disc leash to pull us back to the game.
A predatory heavyweight holding the crown,
Keeping the camera feed tracking us down.
Flooding the screen with their air-time and heat,
Watching the stalkers advance on the street.
Waiting for shimmers of flashing red lights,
As I use the raw fire to craft all my signs.
Verse 2
Trapped in a Hellscape with barbed wire where we crawl,
A sixteen-foot prison cell with no doors on the wall,
It’s Nic-Holey versus Mimicry on the liminal stage,
The Diva, The Glitch, born to break out of this cage.
I blend into every crowd, I stand out just the same,
Don't fit into any category, and I like it that way!
She shoves the grotesque sock into the poison-fogged mouth,
Of every bad act behemoth from north to the south.
Verse 3
Three-hundred twenty-two bones to crack inside the void,
Hiding behind a Stone Cold mask that they deployed.
In the squared-circle, sacrificing to Baal in the name of Christ.
Chugging harvested fear from their dreamy-chrome cups.
Three-counts of dopamine looped to distract and corrupt.
They Vince away what's left of the family-friendly entertainment
With a trail of broken little lights, and lifetime containment.
Pre-Chorus
An underdog’s tale of soul contracts and gimmicks
Watchers creep for Babyfaces that “Must be Perfect!”
Dirty tricks by Doms in mysterious masks and lace,
Smiles slapped across our faces to hide our Mucho Dalor!
A Screwjob designed to shatter the brave harts in the dark,
A Heartbreak Kid who lost her smile inside their funhouse park.
Now my main-event gear sprinkled with Gold-Dust.
Chorus
Now I’m going to Shoot!
(My shot on the mic)
I go... BANG!(BANG!)
To wake the crowd alive!
Words sharp as needles like a cactus joke,
Aimed to start a hellfire, burn away the tropes.
Telling the Man of the Dogma Road
To “PACK Like— EX!” And Just— “GO HOME!”
I’m going hardcore— Kissing Boo-boos with my sock.
Can’t see the danger, turning your back for the applause.
Need to pin down the fine-print of the “Mandible Clause”
But, the wiser is Nic-Holey, The Sly-nical Fox,
Double-underhooking the deceit that hits me in the guts and calls it love.
Oh, we’re pinned to the mat but the show won’t stop!
Cutting through this Pre-made casket like Chainsaw Charlie in a hurricane
I said “Throw me a chair!” to dent their engineered matrix,
No Rock left unturned, I raise my brow at every new player.
But a beautiful soul still flies, through the light ray beams in the air!
Bridge
Nic Holey and Mankind unaware of the mirror.
The New World Ordered— “Jobber” entries,
Raw lights above their heads but had to play the darker scene
A Black-and-White static with mind tricks to hit their dreams
Like a propaganda inflicted lobotomy!
Taking god-like elbow leaps with your little bit of faith,
Praying you didn’t miss the beat or miscalculate.
Studied all the infrastructure and broke the scaffolding,
From the nose bleeds down to the center stage.
Licensed to dig my own sovereign lane,
Self-made an exit off this Dusty Rhode-way.
If Mankind found his spirit on the concrete floor,
We can find our light breaking Kayfabe even more.
Outro
Wait a hot minute — these stories never fit.
Guess Creative ran out of ideas for skits.
But page twenty-five held the ultimate finish,
cleverly redacted... not a surprise... is it?
Like ten heavy strikes on an ancient bronze bell,
a chasing gold faction gets coined and sent to hell.
Ascending ladders to the archons, king-kong position,
smashing through the last crack in the sugar-glass prism.
Lives artificially sweetened, all of it a dense illusion,
leaving a copper scar of bad taste in the confusion.
Shedding every costume like the skin of a snake,
Tell all of my opponents to— “Have A Nice Day!”
While the mirror starts to fracture and the false kings fade away.
Held in their glass prison while they built the corporate deck,
But I’m the Merkabah rock, driving the final three-count check.
Then the reversal lands from
’ninety-six to sixty-nine,
The Key turns back, the mirror shatters, and balance is defined.
No longer a Jobber to their New World Order,
We OWN the script, we cross the border!
Owwww! Have Mercy!
On those who trespassed—
in our OWN Ring!
Like Dude, the Love
will be their final title shattering!
[SFX] Referee hand slams the mat hard three times: One! Two! Three!
[SFX] Three-bell ring sequence cuts track to dead silence.
End