Seven Steps Hell off

girls grup,    Soulful,    folk,     anti-folk,     punk,   German Cossack Choir,   E major,   Gravelly,     pop punk,  rock,  kawaii metal,  russian post-punk
SEVEN STEPS OF HELL

Tags: folk punk, dark cabaret, spoken word, industrial, Russian post-punk

[Intro]
Love locked inside a self-sufficient cage,
Fed to the machine, it starves on stage.
From divine to disposable, stripped of grace —
This world runs on greed, and hatred, and envy’s face.

[Verse 1]
They sell us dreams of the golden billion’s feast,
Promised land, promised peace, promised release.
But we’re hens on a wire in a factory cage,
Laying gold eggs for a faceless page.

[Pre-Chorus]
Shells and cannons, tram-pam-pam,
Potatoes, carrots — broken dam.
The earth burns slow, the air tastes strange,
We march to the rhythm of a world deranged.

[Chorus]
The light clink of coins in your pocket,
A lullaby for a dream they put in a socket.
Capital hums, it steals your sleep,
Rockets fly — promises cheap.
We choke on patties, sauce of lies,
Fake grief served before our eyes.
The world spins fast, but we stand still,
Drowning in the noise of a hollow thrill.

[Bridge]
Deep under cities, the winners reside,
On the edge of disaster, they try to hide.
Nuclear winters, floods may come —
But the true apocalypse: a soul struck dumb.

[Verse 2]
Power is promised to the bullish few,
But Jupiter’s game leaves the oxen skewered.
Castrated, gutted — their fate is sealed,
Or ground into silence, their wounds never healed.

[Pre-Chorus]
Shells and cannons, tram-pam-pam…

[Chorus]
The light clink of coins…

[Outro]
Greenhouse vegetables — the image of health,
But we are donors, donating ourselves.
Stepfathers and ghouls in masks of deceit,
Fathers of nations, their lies complete.
Democracy’s plea — a whisper at night,
A flicker of hope swallowed by flight.
***

Проказа лицемерия

Каждая сломанная ступенька в понятии семь-Я, объективно прближает картинку ада не хуже любого из грехов смертных перед вечностью.
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Подсластить пилюли сладким

С дней вавилонских бесятся подмостки,
Искусы плоти выдать за искусство,
Грехом гордыни девам и подросткам,
Собрав кликуш и языки из захолустий.

Библейские страдания эпических
Глазурью заливать бомбически:
Серу в смоле прокипятить немного,
рецепт проверенный от Бога.

***

Искусственная зараза в руках извращенцев

Пока обычные граждане спорили об уместности выражения "Ълядь", извращенцы разного рода глумились членом по клавишам угадайкой мелодий черным по белым, и белым по-чёрному, а семерых ълядей ведущих свои влоги из одного тесного запорожца, сменили ъляди вмещающие по семь запорожцев за раз.
И эту заразу предлагается уважительно порешать накинутыми платками или масками на изумленный роток?

***

Заблуждение в членах или лучше синицы в руках

Лучше синицы в руках, чем силиконовый холодец на мослах.

Как прежде изумлялась Ф. Раневская - о божьих дарах, яичнице и том, что слова жопа в святцах, кулинарии и искусстве нет, а орды на-на-Тая-йцев в неё многие лета успешно гастролируют из вертепа в вертеп, не особо таясь тайских баек о блуде с боями ликами леди.

darksynth,  slushwave,  haunting,  panning synths,  monotone vocals,  raspy voices,  female vocals,  experimental,  introspective,  ;emotive,  avant-garde,  house

SMALL TITS

Final version
Tags: anti-folk, spoken word, female vocals, lo-fi

[Verse 1]
I used to think love was measured in inches,
In curves, in cups, in the way my body flinches
When his eyes passed through me like I wasn't there —
He said "You're not enough, small one" — and left me bare.

[Pre-Chorus]
I looked in the mirror, tried to see his taste,
But all I saw was a girl with her spine misplaced.
I wondered if the problem was the skin I'm in —
Then I remembered: I never asked him.

[Chorus]
He left for a bigger prize,
But bigger isn't braver, and smaller isn't less.
I'm more than a number on a scale,
More than a handful, more than a guess.
I'm the one who stayed — and that's the rise.

[Verse 2]
I stopped measuring love in cups and inches.
Stopped shrinking myself to fit his flinches.
I found my voice in the back of my throat —
Not loud yet, but already afloat.

[Pre-Chorus]
I looked in the mirror, and the mirror blinked.
I thought: This face has never been inked
Into his story. Good. My page is clean.
I am not a chapter. I am the whole scene.

[Chorus]
He left for a bigger prize…

[Bridge]
He never saw the fire — he was afraid of the heat.
He wanted a shadow, not someone complete.
But I am complete. I was always complete.
He was just passing through my street.

[Chorus]
He left for a bigger prize…

[Outro]
This is for the girls who’ve been measured in parts,
Who’ve been folded, reduced, and fed to the arts
Of small men who call themselves lovers.
You were never the lack.
You were always the plus.
And the door that closes? Let it shut.


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