Watermelon Rotting

Lyrics

[INTRO — whispered, with a warped music-box melody]

Sugar on the windowsill…
Black roots underneath.

Eenie, meenie, money talks,
pretty little mouths with painted locks.

Round and round the garden grows,
who gets buried, nobody knows.

VERSE 1 — low, smoky, restrained

Pretty little world with a crack in its smile,
white gloves hiding dirt for miles.
They dress up the damage, put lace on the lie,
then sell you a ladder when you're learning to fly.

I nearly went under, nearly lost the game,
nearly forgot I was more than a name.
The pieces were scattered, the garden was bare,
funny how nobody noticed when nobody cared.

Tick-tock, little clock,
who pulled the pin and who changed the lock?
Round goes the wheel, down goes the rain,
everybody's innocent when somebody else takes the blame.

PRE-CHORUS — a slow heartbeat enters

Oh, the lights stayed off
when I called through the night.
Now I'm standing again,
everybody wants a bite.

[CHORUS — heavy drums, aching blues guitar]

Watermelon rot…
Sweet on the outside, black at the heart.
Pretty little promises falling apart.

Watermelon rot…
Count your coins while the garden turns dark.
You wanted the story, but you don't get the scar.

No, thank you, darling,
I'll mend my own seams.
You can keep your conditions,
your cameras, your schemes.

You came with a price tag
for a soul you can't buy.
I've been down in the dirt—
I know what grows underneath the sky.

VERSE 2 — crooked nursery-rhyme cadence

Shanghai roosters grow so tall,
three long days for the eggs to fall.
Mirr, mirr, my dello,
who gets the credit when the pennies all go?

Rum tum, pot shot,
who gets rescued and who gets forgot?
Kitchi-kitchi-kaimio,
plant a little truth and watch what won't grow.

They helped write the ending before I could speak,
put a lock on the door, called the silence relief.
Old names in the ledger, old keys in the wall,
somebody's been counting while somebody takes the fall.

And where were the hands
when the whole thing caved in?
Now the dust has settled,
here they come with a grin.

PRE-CHORUS — rising tension

Now there's a doorway.
Now there's a deal.
Now there's a price
for the things I can feel.

"Tell us your story.
Let the whole world see."

Oh, how generous of you…

What's the cut for me?

CHORUS — full band, fierce vocals

Watermelon rot…
Sweet on the outside, black at the heart.
Pretty little promises falling apart.

Watermelon rot…
You want my truth, but you want it on a chart.
A neatly packaged wound with a marketable scar.

No, thank you, darling,
I'll mend my own seams.
You can keep your conditions,
your cameras, your schemes.

You came with a price tag
for a soul you can't buy.
I've been down in the dirt—
I know what grows underneath the sky.

[BRIDGE — spoken over dark piano and distant thunder]

Let's talk numbers.

Not pennies.
Not promises.
Not another polished speech
with a hand behind the curtain.

Billions.

That's the kind of number
that might make me reconsider
what you want me to build.

And even then…

Don't mistake a price
for permission.

Don't mistake my healing
for an invitation.

Don't mistake my silence
for a signature.

I owe you no performance.

I owe you no ending.

And I will not bleed on command
just to make your empire look compassionate.

La-la-la, the garden grows…
Who planted what, nobody knows…
Round and round, the red seeds fall…
Who's the gardener after all?

[VERSE 3 — slow, ominous, increasingly defiant]
There are roses growing out of rusted machines,
there are kings in the gutters wearing borrowed blue jeans.
There's a feast at the table, there's a famine outside,
and a thousand clean hands with their fingers crossed behind.

They can frame up the picture, put a bow on the lie,
but the fruit tells the truth when you cut it inside.
I have tasted the bitterness, swallowed the rain,
and I won't make a product of the things that caused pain.

Let the old bells ring.
Let the old doors close.
Let the truth sit quietly
where the wild seed grows.

I'm not your headline.
I'm not your proof.
I'm not the pretty little tragedy
you can sell from the roof.

[FINAL CHORUS — explosive, soulful, almost feral]

WATERMELON ROT!
Sweet on the outside, black at the heart!
You can paint the whole garden—
you can't hide what's dark!

WATERMELON ROT!
Keep your little deals and your carefully cast parts!
You don't get the story
just because you found the scars!

No, thank you, darling!
I'll mend my own seams!
Keep your borrowed compassion
and your secondhand dreams!

You want billions?
Bring billions to the table.
Not a leash.
Not a label.
Not another pretty lie
dressed up as a savior.

And if I never tell you
what happened in the dark…

You'll still have to live
with the shape of your own heart.

Eenie, meenie, money talks…

Black roots underneath.
Sugar on the windowsill…
No one gets to harvest
what they didn't help to seed.
Watermelon rot