[Verse 1]
Everything out of order
Everything too well produced
From the conjuror's hat –
Let's turn on the juice
To grind the cutting plane, the blade that gives an edge
To scale the mountain; to fail upon the mountain ledge
[Verse 2]
Half-way up is half-way peaking
The stroboscope locks the lathe;
I look around for a switch in phase...
The disco boom stands firm, the eight-track's in, the rage
Licks the present, quickly flips the future page
[Verse 3]
Check the deck: no marked cards
No sequentialled straight or flush...
The dice won't still the blood-line rush
Run the star-flood night, the cut-throat blade is stropped;
Race your shadow... race in case your shadow stops
[Verse 4]
Everything so out of order
No bias on the playback head;
Papers for the border –
All the tape is read
The future burns my tongue, the noise-gates all are shut
Breathe the vacuum, believe there's reason in the cut
[Verse 5]
Incipient white noise
The stylus barely tracks
The air controllers feed the stereo sonic smack