Diabolus in musica

Theory?
Theory is a crutch for people who can't count to five and a half.

I drew a perfect circle on the fretboard of my soul
Then I smashed it with a flat fifth – now that made me whole
You talk about your modes and keys, your functional romance
I counter with a tritone stab and watch your logic pants

Diabolus in musica – I laugh
Diabolus in musica – I bark
You nerds invented rules just so I could miss the mark

This is the gospel of the dissonant man
My polyrhythm's a middle-finger plan
Four beats collapse into seventeen claws
I'm playing jazz while you follow your laws
Ha – Ha – Ha – syncopation spit

You wrote a forty-page thesis on the function of the V
I wrote a riff that uses six – and none of them agree
My drummer hits the snare three times where one would fit the grid
I fire him, rehire him, then I blame the fucking lid

Diabolus in musica – I sneer
Diabolus in musica – I cheer
Your counterpoint's a fossil, boy – my chaos is sincere

This is the gospel of the dissonant man
My polyrhythm's a middle-finger plan
Four beats collapse into seventeen claws
I'm playing jazz while you follow your laws
Ha – Ha – Ha – he laughs, then blast beats

Smug piano noodles...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...

Oh I see. You thought theory was a shelter.
A warm blanket of functional harmony.
Cute.
But the universe runs on flat five, my friend.
Everything resolves when you stop caring.
One... two... three-and-four-and-wait-no

Blast beats – sax trill – guitar falling down stairs
Sudden silence
Ride cymbal – ping... ping... ping...
Ha.