Freshly Diced

Peculiar Rasterised


Master of the ocean, my closet’s the aquatic center
Feisty firearm, pistol with a violent temper
Mature palette, crab meat in the guacamole
Beggars at the bottom like to say the top is lonely
Keep my music raw just like my blue points
Each week I’m banging out new joints
It’s real dick, bottles in ice baths
Bitches with nice calves
Whole chrome toaster we might blast

MEYHEM LAUREN “Grown Man Pallets”


Now the old folks will remember
On that dark and dismal day
How their hearts were choked with pride
As their children marched away
Now the glory is all gone
They are left alone
And there won’t be many coming home
No, there won’t be many coming home
Oh, there won’t be many
Maybe five out of twenty
But there won’t be many coming home