Split Tape with HUMAN CULL
released 10 November 2012
All music and lyrics by Homolka
Recorded and mixed by Phil Miller
all rights reserved
feeds for ,
- Track Name: Urchins in an Urn
Bumper sticker flaunting, Sunday sermon haunting, Conservative voting, preschool student groping waste of time and space in consensus reality, doubled over - fireaxe to the gut. I'd rather be surrounded by welfare collecting orphans than endure you bible-thumping nuts. Scientist dismissing, lobbyist ass-kissing, slash and burn supporting, religious right courting waste of a ballot - democratic process abused. A true libertarian would support the right to choose.
- Track Name: Rob Ford Doesn't Care About Gay People
Belly-flopping into council meetings like a bucket full of chicken grease. Scheming, fat, pathetic gimp, dragged behind a streetcar on St. Clair. Fuck you, Coach Sandusky. Your brother is a pussy too, babbling like a fool on Sun TV. Throw you off a fucking ferris wheel. How retarded do you have to be to not recognize Mary Walsh? That was a rhetorical question.
- Track Name: Doped Up, Bloated and Rotting on a Toilet (Fuck Your Stupid Hipster/Rockabilly Boyfriend)
Every time I see your face I cringe in disgust at what you've done. You're lying to your imaginary friend in the mirror. Like a battered wife, head in the fucking oven door, you take the coward's way out of whatever lies in store. Nothing worse than a spineless fucking whore. No morals or ethical standards whatsoever. So practiced on the outside, but inwardly you can't pull that foundation-caked, crow-footed face out of your ass. I don't give a fuck who the fuck it is - choke on his cock.
- Track Name: Seth Putnam Isn't Dead, I Just Saw Him At the Oak Leaf Steambaths
Free speech is not your lapdog to do with as you please. Seperate yourself from bullshit and all brain activity would cease. Strangling you spinless P.C. fucks. You're living the Canadian dream - head buried like a dodo. Fuck your partisan schemes.
- Track Name: Book Us, Matt Cuthbert
- Track Name: Marx Work Warehouse
Show up for work three hours late. Plead with any girl in your sightlines for dates. Bask in your failed managerial career. Your lame pseudo-gypsy music bores me to tears. As you face your destruction, I laugh last at your bitter end. What was your families' reaction when they found out the scum that you've been? Those boxing day bullets should've hit you, and another heart attack awaits.