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lyrics

you're a dead, rotten, worm-ridden, sweat-dripping bloodsucker
the father of all motherfuckers
you're a dead, rotten, worm-ridden, sweat-dripping bloodsucker
the father of all motherfuckers

you're a closed-up, bought-up public space
i can see the mold behind your face
you are toxic waste
they tried to bury you in the desert but they failed
let me be your coffin nail.
let me be your coffin nail.

and here's exactly how little you know:
you think you are invincible
we've been hanging on to the last straw
you play with the lighter to ignite us all
just because we hung up on the last phone call
and we ain't gonna pick you up when you fall
and you fall
and you fall
and you fall

you're a dead, rotten, worm-ridden, sweat-dripping bloodsucker
the mother of all motherfuckers
you're a dead, rotten, worm-ridden, sweat-dripping bloodsucker
the father of all fuckers

you could have been a great man
but damn, man, you blew it
you're a party balloon and we all got needles, screw it.
you're the biggest, boldest lie a guy's ever told me.
you straw-haired, blue-eyed cardboard cutout with cold feet
always cold feet

the only reason you're flying high is
because sacks of hot air always rise
the only reason you're floating high is
because sacks of hot air always rise
the only reason you're flying high is
because sacks of hot air always rise
the only reason you're floating high is...

you're a dead, rotten, worm-ridden, sweat-dripping bloodsucker
the father of all motherfuckers
you're a dead, rotten, worm-ridden, sweat-dripping bloodsucker
the mother of all motherfuckers

you will be nameless and forgotten.
you will be absolutely nothing.
you will be nameless and forgotten.
you will be absolutely nothing.

credits

from Investments / Insults, released May 1, 2020

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about

Squalloscope Vienna, Austria

Squalloscope is Anna Kohlweis, who exists as an interdisciplinary artist, illustrator, music producer, composer, singer, and songwriter based in Vienna. This is an intimate endeavour, music that wants to be sung right into your face, bubbling over with imagery and politics, every record an exercise in turning oneself inside out. What else are we here for? ... more

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