[INTRO]
Deep in the heat where the black flies sing,
There’s a house with walls that breathe.
A sewing needle, a butcher’s grin,
And something holy underneath.
[VERSE 1]
He was born where the sun rots slow,
Where the dirt turns red and the dead grass grows.
Hands like hammers, eyes like night,
Creating beauty from a butchered life.
Leather stretched beneath the lamp,
Shadows twitching where the floorboards cramp.
Every stitch, every seam,
A masterpiece made from a fever dream.
He hums to the bones in the room,
Like a choir inside a tomb.
Needle dives and thread pulls tight,
Turning horror into art by candlelight.
[PRE-CHORUS]
He don’t speak much,
But the walls understand.
Every scar is a signature
Carved by his hand.
[CHORUS]
Stitched in scarlet, dressed in pain,
He makes angels out of stains.
Blood like wine on a rusted floor,
And still he keeps on craving more.
Oh, the leather sings,
Oh, the red bells ring.
In the house where mercy died,
A genius wears the dark with pride.
[VERSE 2]
There’s a beauty in the monstrous mind,
A twisted craft no god designed.
He sees the shape beneath the skin,
The mask outside, the beast within.
Every hide becomes a crown,
Every scream becomes a sound.
Every drop that hits the ground
Feels like worship coming down.
A gallery of silent faces,
Hung like saints in sacred places.
No applause, no velvet rope,
Just flies and dust and strangled hope.
[TRAP BRIDGE]
808s in the cellar,
Chains in the heat.
Heavy breath, crooked step,
Dragging death through the wheat.
Tap, tap, needle in.
Drip, drip, crimson hymn.
No love, no fear, no sin,
Just hunger crawling under skin.
[BREAKDOWN]
HE SEWS THE NIGHT!
HE FEEDS THE FLAME!
HE CARVES HIS ART
WITHOUT A NAME!
BLOOD FOR THE NEEDLE!
SKIN FOR THE THRONE!
THE DEVIL NEVER HAD
TO WORK ALONE!
BLEGH!
[VERSE 3]
He is not a man of speeches,
He is sermons made of stitches.
A cathedral built from suffering,
Where every doorway whispers things.
He knows the language of the blade,
The quiet art of what he made.
Not just violence, not just wrath,
But genius walking a slaughter path.
Some paint with oil,
Some carve from stone.
He builds his visions
From flesh and bone.
And in his mind, it all makes sense,
The blood, the craft, the consequence.
A tender touch, a savage need,
An artist cursed forever to bleed.
[CHORUS]
Stitched in scarlet, dressed in pain,
He makes angels out of stains.
Blood like wine on a rusted floor,
And still he keeps on craving more.
Oh, the leather sings,
Oh, the red bells ring.
In the house where mercy died,
A genius wears the dark with pride.
[GOTHIC INTERLUDE]
Moonlight spills through broken glass,
Over relics of the past.
A music box plays soft and slow,
For all the names we’ll never know.
Black lace, bone dust,
Iron teeth and sacred rust.
A lullaby in a room of flies,
Where art and madness intertwine.
[VERSE 4]
He loved the texture, loved the grain,
Loved the way it held the pain.
Loved the pull, the shape, the
