WallPaper in Hell EP

by If I Look Strong; You Look Strong

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1.
01:56
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02:31
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4.
05:30

about

The 2nd in the "FOUR EPS" series sees DJ IILS;YLS teaming up with MC Odder Otter for 4 sick Hip-Hop tracks to become IF I LOOK ODDER; U LOOK OTTER!

credits

released December 10, 2015

Production and Beats: Noah Michael
Lyrics, Vocals, and Cover Art: Adam Maisonet

Composed, Mixed, and Mastered @ New Music Recordings
Vocals tracked by Adam

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about

If I Look Strong; You Look Strong Calgary, Alberta

Solo Project of Noah Michael since 2007.
Live Lineup: Noah on Guitar, Vocals, and Samplers.
Dylan on Drums.
Affiliated Players: Eric Andrews, Connor Scott, Adam Odter

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Contact If I Look Strong; You Look Strong

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Track Name: Sissy Fuss
I'm going to peace now. Slow, no trouble.
Buddy, you could rub a boat as a bass- no treble-
Settle subtle indiscretions with a grace indescribable
By mammalian mouth muscles or any other oracles.

Allegedly legendarily useful,
It's a shame when it only helps you, dude.
You're a sprain on the wrist of the hand that you kiss
Because you only exist for it to shovel you food while you shit and piss
Copper, credit, debt. Proper limit met.
Suffer, simmer, set, muffle. More yet?
OK, but I’m tired.
I'm not opposed to work but are you all as sick as me of being devoured and conspired against?
While we march the picket fence entrenched in this money/power/fame shit! All-gain-no-blame shit!
All public losses and private profits and marginalized public for profit margins.
Sisyphus of the bean pile with sanctuary in front, but the thief behind.
If you go on you can make it to the palace gates, but if you sleep you die.
And if your sleep too sweet perhaps it better you lie.
"I am not a wage slave, I am not a wage slave," I will not repeat six words into the grave.
I will not bow down nice for a treat and a head pat ready to behave.
Mistake!
Shakes from your jowls and shanks; give thanks for the world we've made.
We've come a long way on the backs of others and it's time to start looking to change.
When we embrace obscenity, and we push polarity, and we skew morality for our knuckle-dusting.
It doesn't matter how much money you've got when they decide your money is worth nothing.
Track Name: Thirsty
Are you hungry, or is it show, dude?
You want a harvest to reap, you've got to sow, dude.
You want to play it for keeps, then you bet it all b.
Pull up your socks and try to follow me.

Oh you thought it would be easier, huh?
Thought they'd believe in you, huh?
Thought they'd all love you like Ma (but with oral sexes)?
The story of your life is Push by Sapphire cause what you are is fucking precious.
An anomalous phenomena drawing prawns to the grill. Spare or kill?
Fuck it; shove your dick in the gills.
Screams are sexier when they're stifled with the pills (shrill enough to rouse the neighbours, not enough to make me spill, though.)
I'm stirring up shit fondue so get your skewers set and get in the queue until it comes to you. Hey! Hey!
You're just a peasant trying to step to my wonderland, but I’m up here on my toadstool like "Who are you?"

Are you thirsty? You're salivating, kid.
You're the desert of wondering where oasis is.
While you're chasing it, you're Algernoning it, but I am yawning still because it sounds like dicks
That you've been trying to drill into my eardrums daily. I'm taking pills but, frankly, I’m getting shaky.
Wakie-bakie and set the pan in the cakies.
Tell your man I’m going to bate to him daily.
Cause I’m the tall dark figure always in the corner of your vision.
Holler my name if you can feel me and listen
For the call and response echoing forth from the distance
And a futile-ish pulse burrowed deep inside of your ribcage.
I AM THE SON OF THE RED EARTH
An ambassador of the dead space/wet cold/dry heat network
Lingering hideously and increasingly grotesquely,
The malignancy set in motion has a propensity to destroy me!
Track Name: WallPaper in Hell
Sublime subliminal sublimation.
Beta-max weapons for beta-buds, brilliant sheep.
Blank stares for protective masks and trying to guide this vessel to the milk bath.
Contemplative sphinx of a garden-girdled Babylon
Babbling incessantly of money/water/food pawns
Like he's trying to get blood drawn with nary a thought to which gut he lay the beat upon
Like a settle-aged villain with a collar
He knows just what he offers.
Lipstick, fuck it if it was proper.
Pick a straw for a herring of a proverb.
Pitch black and oppressively silent,
It's a seismic enigma in a kismet
Navigating by the prospect of profit.
Kid, you want to give it a kick? It's well worth it!

Wallpaper in hell. Guided by Phobos to nightmare itself.
Burn apart where he fell and rise from the ashes encompassed in spell.
Venus on a half shell shakes gums at the cauliflower skin. Not a wishing well,
Wishing well-wishers hit the city with cyclopean strangeness and a brain-dead violence. Hell,
kIlling the dog won't fix the bite but try it if you'd like. You've got to take it with a fork and knife.
All the devils and worshippers are taking the same flight.
Life is a bitter bitch. I want your slice,
summon up Pazuzu for the 'no dice' and bomb hills with your buds for the night.
When he lays paint it's a jack knife.
Why does mine always look like a blood fight?

To have said is to have done
To have done is to have sinned
So what you've done with what you've said
Is the crown on which you sit
I scribe your name in to this pot
I fill the pot with shit
I burn the shit-filled pot
I smash it into bits
With this curse I bring to life
Evil secrets which you've hid
With this wrist I raise this knife
I give the offering to commit
With this blood and with this slit
I seal your fate along with it
Into the flame
Into Beelzebub's Eternal Grip!

Beelzebub!
Track Name: Thumbs Up!
Abominable vomiting despicable garbage,
Pardon the knowledge. I'm a sour Tardis of bile and hardships
Piloting ghastly ghost ships with bongs and spliffs
Running aground of your harbour and screaming fuck your little ships.

Psychosomatic bi-polar
Priceless semantics from a rotted molar.
Gentile pampers prized from this point forward
Rabble-rousing rib-ticklers. Give me more! Give me more!
Halitosis grosser than you could cope with,
Same success present now as I was born with.
Not deserving, and not alluring, not insinuating I need more… I guess that I’m just spewing.
Speculating timidly into the orb and waiting patiently.
Pacing as If the future belongs to me, if only briefly,
And I can hold it and I can touch it and I can squeeze it if it allows me
But instead it often surrounds me, Claustrophobically mocking me.

Pacifism is an algorithm for rhythmic living predetermined by the cosmic pace.
Shooting off thoughts like rockets into space while matching gait to the stride of fate. We proselytize our space in time as ace, but the shapeless mass is really a nest egg for mistake.
Monte Cristo counting on the disco selling out seats for the "best hands-down" show.
Loosening the tempo, lubricating whistles, and preacher-believable babbling, "brother, you're going to get yours."
But when he gives it to the kinfolk, he's rubber-stamping on the will prose.
Will he or won't he? Brother, we're never going to know until he shows up in a selfie with an automatic weapon.

Cross swords with a graceful tact and double back when the stars attack.
Turn a quarter to a dime in a snap, and pick another ounce to be ashes fast.

A little treat for your ears to snack.
Hit record and rewind it back.
We brought what we know you lack cause you know I look strong on the odter track.

Thumbs up for the flashback, dude,
Grow a 'stache out to match that 'tude!
Kick hard like the ballad of a kick drum and kick a little harder if they're bleeding from their eardrums.
You'd better watch how you act; Smiles up front but a whyle in the back.
We're gonna hang like a rope dude.
Blow cabbage in the car if you want to.
I'm living on beans this month,
And I ain't complaining much.
I don't really need much to touch, but it's always around me so it kind of sucks.

Music is a village and not an item
and this is where we're presently residing.
Techno warriors from the future living on the rough side of the mountain because that's what it takes to learn if you can even climb it.

I'm a demigod of half-way thoughts.
I’m a double faced bitch with a broken jaw.
I’m screaming hit me harder, I’m getting regretfully nada.
I’m pulling out hair and shit and I’m stuffing my gullet like it's empanadas.