Rhythm is both the song's maniacal and it's demonic charge
It is the original breath, it is the whisper of unremitting demand
What do you still want to be said the singer?
What do you think you can still draw from my lips?
Exact presence that no fantasy can represent
Purveyor of the old secret
Alive with the blood that boils again
And is pulsing where the rhythm is torn apart
How your singer's blood is incensed at the depth of sound
Lacerations echo in the mouth's open erotic sky where dance together
The lost trenches of rhythm and an imploring immobility Ladies and gentlemen... The Rhythm

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