(Produced by Samuel Kettler)

(Verse 1)

What's the point like that yeah?

What's the point like that?

With everybody running, drink breaks get short

Victory's cancelled no point but jog

Jog, jog, jog, jog

If you keep on jogging then the point don't matter

Cuz if you doing something don't stop to think

No real discussion that's just chitter chatter, yo

Me, I came from Wilchatta Station

With a will to chat about real complications

Not award considerations

Prolemz get discussed while their hot to make activists, seem cool

Be cool, like that's the culture

Look how we've altered

One time it was all believing we'd all repent at that altar

Now it's colder, we don't have faith

Even if you say you're religious, do you look around and see light

Or do you see false burning life

Doesn't matter bout why's, only matters is what (s)

What's what's what's important

Creating watts is so important, we're impotent

To what's the cause

We all fight of course, but without a cause

New Babylon, on Matterhorn, it's unfathomable

It's gone, we've babbled along with hate

In our veins like a capricorn, so stab the don

And spite the dawn so we can hold the night

And let daybreak be gone

If the son don't rise, then the king holds true

And when he drops dead then what do we do?

I'll tell you what, we

Fight for none and die for one, as per usual

(Pre-Hook: tune)

(Hook)

No one rises here, it's all vices here x2

Anything goes....

(Verse 2)

It goes, goes, goes, no prose

Ink done ran out yeah we knows

Everyone hitting new lows

Product of God, I suppose?

It goes, goes, till we all ghosts

Finding the whitests coast

Under the pall of a darkening sky

Shadow of the last page as it closes

What's the point to me rapping bout this

'Cept to get it off of my chest?

Trynna be conscious, but I feel like it is such

Nonsense, got no way to vent

Cuz when I see a dead body rammed on the tarmac

And there's tar on the carcass, covered in a

Tarpaulin, it's appalling enough

To say that God is a liberal literal artist

Oh, I'm begging your pardon

For not speaking in that jargon

You've jarred into all men, and stuck em

In a yard and farmed them till they aren't men

And as I lament on this arbitrary life

I can feel the breeze as I breeze through it

And as I feel like I might be used to it

It means that I can control what I breathe

So I can say what I want to say

Or leave it for someone else on another day

(Pre-Hook: tune)

(Hook)

No one rises here, it's all vices here x2

Anything goes....

(Outro)

Still trying out for an outro

Calling out from the back row

It all amounts to a broken back

So I've opened up and I'm falling back down...