Bagman’s Baptism

[Verse 1 0:30–1:00] He haunts the fluorescents, a ghost in gray slacks, Thumb ghosts over screens—her likes, her tracks. Aisle five's his canvas, where the mundane bleeds red, She weighs the tomatoes, ripe as the dread in his head. No tremor in his grip, just the artist's calm hand, Sketching her outline in the spill of the stand. He knows the arc of her neck, the curve of her plea, One breath from the bloom, where the masterpiece be. [Pre-Chorus 1:00–1:20] The bag from his pocket, translucent and thin, Crinkles like whispers of sin closing in. He steps to her shadow, a suitor in thrift, "Excuse me, miss—mind if I gift you this rift?" [Chorus 1:20–2:00] Plastic veil drops, seals her scream in the gloss, Fingers knot tight, no mercy, no loss. She thrashes the palette, paints veins in her throat, Blue turning black, where the wild colors float. He savors the stroke—her heels drum the floor, Nails rake the film, begging for more. No gun's crude flash, no knife's wet divide, Just the hush of her fade, his demented bride. Bagman’s baptism, blood kissing the seal, One layer of life, for the thrill he can feel. [Verse 2 2:00–2:30] Elbow cracks ribs like a frame snapping true, She crumples to crates, crates of the new. He kneels in the clutter, breath syncing her gasp, "Easy now, darling—let the medium clasp." Her eyes bulge like oils, swirling storm in the deep, Fists pound his chest, but he cradles the leap. The pulse in her wrists flutters wild as a brush, He counts every heave, every desperate rush. Thirty beats fading, forty, the hush— Her god's final smear on his gallery's plush. [Pre-Chorus 2:30–2:50] The red seeps through, a signature bold, Not waste, but the warmth that his visions enfold. He peels back the edge, drinks the steam from her core, Art demands sacrifice—nothing less, nothing more. [Chorus 2:50–3:30] Plastic veil drops, seals her scream in the gloss, Fingers knot tight, no mercy, no loss. She thrashes the palette, paints veins in her throat, Blue turning black, where the wild colors float. He savors the stroke—her heels drum the floor, Nails rake the film, begging for more. No gun's crude flash, no knife's wet divide, Just the hush of her fade, his demented bride. Bagman’s baptism, blood kissing the seal, One layer of life, for the thrill he can feel. [Verse 3 3:30–4:00] Stockroom's his studio, door locked with a click, He stretches her limp on the pallets, brick-thick. The bag, now a relic—crimson-veined, alive— Unfurls like a flag from the war he contrives. Scissors trace edges, no haste in the cut, Preserving the splatter, the intimate rut. Her lipstick a streak on the translucent divide, He pins it to plywood, lets the fluids subside. Not disposal, oh no—this is birth in the gore, A triptych of terror, forevermore. [Bridge 1: The Mind's Murmur 4:00–4:45] [Tempo slows to 45 BPM; vocals splinter into overlapping echoes—his voice, her imagined pleas, a child's lullaby warped through feedback. Backing: Wet, squelching synths mimic bodily fluids, punctuated by plastic crinkles and faint, rhythmic thuds like cooling flesh settling.] They call it madness, but I see the divine— Each flutter a flourish, each gurgle a line. Her warmth on my fingers, the canvas that weeps, I compose in the quiet where the reaper still sleeps. No galleries gilded, no critics to fawn, Just walls in the wasteland, my private dawn. She dances eternal in droplets and dye, My muses, my models—immortal, they lie. The world chokes on beauty, too blind to the vein, But I sip from the source, and I kill it again. [Swells back to tempo with a violin screech, like ripping fabric.] [Verse 4 4:45–5:15] Dawn cracks the loading dock, crates for the haul, He rolls up the masterpiece, tucks it one and all. Next shift's a siren—barista with fire, Her laugh like a spark in his funeral pyre. The cycle rewinds, meticulous grind, From feed to the fall, the predator's bind. He sketches her route in the steam of his breath, Another blank space courting death. The bag in his sleeve, ever-ready, ever-pure, Waiting to cradle what his hunger endures. [Pre-Chorus Variation 5:15–5:30] The red will anoint it, a sacrament spilled, Not end, but extension—his vision fulfilled. [Final Chorus 5:30–6:00] [Layered harmonies: Growl builds to a choral wail, guitars grind like bones under boot. Extra lines for extension.] Plastic veil drops, seals her scream in the gloss, Fingers knot tight, no mercy, no loss. She thrashes the palette, paints veins in her throat, Blue turning black, where the wild colors float. He savors the stroke—her heels drum the floor, Nails rake the film, begging for more. No gun's crude flash, no knife's wet divide, Just the hush of her fade, his demented bride. Bagman’s baptism, blood kissing the seal, One layer of life, for the thrill he can feel— And the gallery grows, in the shadows he keeps, Walls weeping with wonders that eternity reaps. Outro (6:00–6:15) [Fades to silence]