Candace rocked some violins today.

About:

All the instrumentation is final. Still working on vocals, so I left them out of this iteration.



Lyrics:

A dark haired
Man comes home
To see that
Someone
Has stolen
Designs from
His office

And his brother
Was nowhere
To be found.
Then he found
Words on the
Wall written
In blood.

They read, "Meet
Us on
West third
By the
River
If you want
Your brother

To live."
He goes and
There's a
Black car
Waiting
A gruff voice says,
"Get in."

They blindfold his eyes and club him on the head.
He wakes up and they're still driving.
The night passes into oblivion. He wakes again
In a immense workroom alone with a note that says,

"Build us a flying machine
Win next month's race, and we won't kill your brother."
So he builds it well. Race day comes. His thug captors
Push him up to the starting line

He eyes the
Rest of
The field.
Only one
Machine
Out of
The 14

Looks like
It has an-
y chance of
Leaving
The ground.
That's when the
Pistol fired

A great cloud of smoke and dust encompasses
Everything, but the crowd can hear movement
They hear machines advancing,
When suddenly two planes burst free!

The race was on! Our hero saw his rival
Pull ahead, and he couldn't catch up no matter
What he tried, but he kept trying
And then saw an opening.
Now they were neck and neck,
And the finish was just ahead, less than a hundred feet

Speeding
To the check-
ered flag,
Both flyers
Snarled at
Each other,
But as the

Photo
Finish
camera
Snapped, the
Dark-haired
Man realized
Who he was

Flying
Against! Then
He yelled out,
"Orville!"
Their joyful
Eyes looked down
To see their

Captors
Waving
Them in.
But now with
No brother
To save, they
Just kept...

Flying

Notes:

I'm toying with the idea of releasing stream-only versions of new songs as they progress from conception to finished recordings, assigning a percentage of completeness to each iteration, roughly comprised of 40% writing, 30% instrumentation, 20% mixing, and 10% mastering, thus documenting the ascension of songs to higher and higher states of worthiness, soon to escape their mortal shells, finally attaining the elysian bliss of purchasability.

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