¡She got uh trans-dimensional boombox, bay-beh!
She found a spot on its dial,
So vulgar 'n' vile;
¡She got a cannibalistic jukebox, m'mahh!
'Gonna substitute her glitz fer guile...

...It was station WJBC, yeah, that's
Where the pestilence first broke free, I'll tell ya,
Like a neon hyena straddling the airwaves;
Deep as an earthquake 'n' high as an airraid,

With a throb 'n' patter
Of ungodly chatter
From each peculiar which the needle traversed,
There were whorls 'n' ripples
In the records' spirals,
Like something viral
Which her speakers dispersed.

Now she's checking her posture 'gainst the
Hum of a string,
But her harmonics all bark now, instead of sing,
And get a few more, uh, OVERTONES than she'd planned,
Like strumming snakes in her belly with a skeleton hand...
¡She strummin' snakes in her belly with a skeleton hand, she go!

These lines of hers swerve
Instead of converge,
Thwarting all purposeful
Locomotion,
Till she can't steer
Her limbs, her mind veers,
About, through and near this
Vexing devotion.

Her spine thus collapsed, 'n' all that remains
Is a pelvis housing a blues-addled brain.

With her last working limb, she reached for the plug
Of the boombox, hoping to thwart that weird bug,

But her brain and nerves, in a feedback circuit,
Filled that limb up with noise till she forgot how to work it.

¿Now what kind of Boogie from a radio station
Could cause such a bustle and cripple a nation?

¡No Rotation!

Station to station, our brand of consumption
Sets yer nerves t' swerve 'n' yer t-cells t' bumpin'.

¡No Rotation!

So excuse our demeanor if we seem t'boast,
We're just a boogie-woogie virus lookin' for a host.

¡No Rotation!

'Twas lean, but spacious,
With a thirst voracious,
And tendencies rapacious on the stem of the brain,
Thus rend'ring it's victims
Mere shivering systems
Of flow and resistance for it's hiccuped refrains.
And it spreads with the ease
Of airborne disease
With each pelvis it seized by the breadth of its maw; where mirages of heat
Collide and compete,
And morph, but repeat this new physical law.

¿Now, what kind of Boogie-logical agent
Could yield such a harvest of stilted creation, and
What kind of potion,
From what kind of chalice,
Could deliver us back from these
Vibrations of malice?
¿Or can it be done
Before we are rung
Of our blood and our voices,
Unpumped and unsung?
¿Is some Sorcerer lurking
Behind some dark curtain,
Twisting his mustache
To see it is certain?

A warbling specter falls through my vector,
Darting, from station to station,
As though it physically plays off
My quizzical chaos
In a fit of turbulent creation...
She no longer protects her
Slow-weeping nectar, as I
Suckle it's sweet libations;
She'll kiss m'chin,
Lick her lips 'n' grin,
Transmitting a whisper to tear through MY din, she say,

"¡No Rotation!"

Lyrics and music by Andy Klosenski, ©2011