Growing so tall

Lyrics

INTRO — spoken, low and dangerous

Look at that pretty fucking garden.

All that money.
All those clean hands.

And everything underneath it
is rotting.

VERSE 1

This world's got lipstick on a pig
and a fucking halo on a thief.
They'll shake your hand while picking your pocket,
then sell you prayers for your grief.

I damn near lost myself in the game,
damn near got buried beneath my own name.
Watched the doors close, watched the phones go dead,
watched the vultures circle while I fought for my head.

Funny how nobody had a helping hand
when I was face-down, trying to stand.
But I dragged my ass out of that hole alone—
now everybody's calling like they own the throne.

PRE-CHORUS

Now it's, "Tell us what happened.
Give us the truth."

Sign on the line,
let us profit off you.

CHORUS — heavy drums, snarling vocals

Watermelon rot!
Sweet little smile with a maggot in the heart.
Everybody wants a piece when the money starts.

Watermelon rot!
You watched me bleed, now you want the fucking art.
Want my scars in a frame, want my pain on the charts.

Fuck your pity.
Fuck your deal.
I know the difference between a hand and a heel.

You didn't help me rise.
You didn't carry my weight.
Now you want my whole damn story?

BITCH, WHAT'S MY TAKE?

[VERSE 2 — dirty bass, spoken-sung cadence]

My exes had their chapters,
you helped them write the end.
Funny how the truth gets buried
when the liars have friends.

Erase a woman's name,
then act surprised she's gone.
Shut every fucking window,
then ask why she moved on.

I know about the backroom smiles,
the favors and the strings.
How they dress a little control up
like it's some benevolent thing.

You don't get to call it rescue
when there's a contract in your hand.
You don't get to call me lucky
when I crawled here without your plan.

NURSERY-RHYME BREAK — warped music box

Shanghai roosters grow so tall,
three damn days for the eggs to fall.

Mirr, mirr, my dello,
where'd the money go, little fellow?

Rum tum, pot shot,
who got paid and who got caught?

Kitchi-kitchi-kaimio—
pretty little garden,
what the fuck did you grow?

CHORUS — louder, guitars grinding

Watermelon rot!
Sweet little smile with a maggot in the heart.
Everybody wants a piece when the money starts.

Watermelon rot!
You want the truth, but you want to own the art.
Want the blood without the body,
want the ending from the start.

Fuck your pity.
Fuck your deal.
I know the difference between a hand and a heel.

You didn't help me rise.
You didn't carry my weight.
Now you want my whole damn story?

BITCH, WHAT'S MY TAKE?

[BRIDGE — almost silent, then a slow, crushing beat]

Let's talk fucking numbers.

Not exposure.
Not a platform.
Not a chance to tell my story
while you own the rights and profits.

Billions.

That's what I said.

Not because your money makes you righteous—
because I'm done being underpaid
for what it cost to survive.

And even then,
you don't buy my silence.

You don't buy my healing.
You don't buy the woman
who crawled out of the wreckage
while you stood there taking notes.

I don't owe you a confession.
I don't owe you my scars.
I don't owe you one goddamn thing
because you finally noticed
I'm still here.

[VERSE 3 — full swagger, blues-rock groove]

I know the shadow has a dress code.
I know the devil wears cologne.
I know a wolf can learn to say "I'm sorry"
without a shred of shame in his bones.

I've seen the suits, I've heard the speeches,
I've watched the good get priced and sold.
I've seen compassion turn to business
when the wounded won't do what they're told.

So keep your fucking spotlight.
Keep your carefully framed concern.
I've got my own damn matches
and a few bridges left to burn.

I'm not your victim on a poster.
I'm not your lesson or your saint.
I'm a woman with a memory
and a mouth that you can't paint.

[FINAL CHORUS — explosive, raw female belt]

WATERMELON ROT!
Cut it open—look at what you've got!
All that pretty green,
all that bullshit on top.

WATERMELON ROT!
You can buy the stage,
but the soul ain't for sale.
You can bury every witness,
but the truth grows a tail.

Fuck your pity!
Fuck your fame!
Fuck the pretty little story
where you profit from my pain!

You want my truth?
Bring billions to the floor.

And if you don't like the price,
GET THE FUCK OUT THE DOOR.

OUTRO — whispered over a dying guitar

Mirr, mirr, my dello…

Who's the richest one of all?

Not the one who bought the story.

Not the one who built the wall.

It's the one who walked away
and didn't answer when you called.

Watermelon rot…

Sweet on the outside.

Rotten to the core.

I don't owe this world
one fucking word more.