Womb To Tomb

by Dying Breeds

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00:31
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about

Womb To Tomb.
The "farewell for now" EP from Dying Breeds before their hiatus.
Recorded sporadically between February & December 2013 at Douchebag Cowboy Studios.

credits

released January 17, 2014

Dying Breeds:
Tom Ralphs, Andrew Jeckell, Jonny Percival, Joel Mullin.
Produced & recorded by Dying Breeds
Mixed & Mastered by Tom Ralphs
Tracks 1, 2 & 4 were recorded over the second half of 2013, while tracks 3 and 5 were recorded as singles and remastered for the EP.

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Dying Breeds Norwich, UK

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Track Name: Turtlist
Well I don't really sing protest songs anymore, but don't you hate our medieval look at war?
And I know it keeps the population size in line, but without bombs and guns and mines we'll be just fine.
Track Name: Nights Of Passage
I'm simply the kinda guy who's breaking down inside, even though I'm fine
And I know craving is normal but this is horrible - also sublime.
I'm telling you now that I'm broken. If you get the chance, will you fix me; please fix me.

And yes of course, you are quite right; the inner me is quite a sight without the bite,
And you may correctly assume where this is going very soon. You guess right.
I'm serious about the cracks in my brain: it feels like you're the only one who's capable, yeah.

I don't need you but I kinda do, it's fucked and true.
Try this blunt: corrosive front, under passive.
Is this a game to you or are these nights of passage?

I'm simply the kinda guy who's growing up outside, check out the lines
On my face but I hope you see rightly through all of this and see the child.
It's funny how the past comes back to haunt me, but you're the ghost I like the most so anyway, yeah.
Track Name: Antisocial Network
I'm not saying I don't subscribe to the media you do,
I just have this pinch of salt.
To take with every dose of facebook feed that makes my eyes bleed.
It's a habit Zuckerberg has made my fault.
Time after time, the process revolves yet again.
Time after time, I want to know when it will end.

The internet will surely capsize;
Too many passengers on board with voices we abhor and idiots screaming more.

We are owned by the logos branded on our tshirts,
Controlled by the like button and the ads.
We've gotta take back our mental freedom:
Wash away the trending hashtags, wash away the trends and the fads.

I'm not saying I don't get the pop-culture references
But I don't like my whole life inside a meme.
Let's live and let live, forget and forgive ourselves for falling prey
To all the pointless youtube videos we've seen.
Time after time, the process revolves yet again.
Time after time, I want to know when it will end.

The internet will surely capsize;
Too many values on the floor, equality is poor, let's fuck and scream and more.
Track Name: Downtown Abbey
The rapture seems a breeze compared to strap-on nuns that will compere
the high class pain you are about to receive.
The power-shift and balance lies in the hands of angelic ties,
binding you to bedposts stained with grief.

Downtown Abbey (I'm not going).
Lock up your daughters; safeguard the proles,
While businessmen get new holes torn.

Our judges play the part of gimps and get treated like research chimps
by a dom dressed like an advocate.
The police chief gets beaten by a makeshift robber and denies
brutality as a form of release (stop, police).
Track Name: Church Of The Saturday Saints
Small boys turning prisoners - all grown up, pissed and vinegared and alone.
"Take the hand of God," he said.
So they climbed a Brazilian monument.

They took from past the wrist, leaving healing hands un-missed,
Singing "Church of the Saturday Saints: we're sick, sick saints".

Fool proof and a bible belt... A simple slip, two cards he dealt (and his home).
"Take the hand and play," he said. So they sold the diamonds for cash instead.

They used spades to unearth the clubs to beat heart's virgin birth,
Singing "Church of the Saturday Saints: we're sick, sick saints".

We're sick, sick saints and we're tired of the drone.
Sick, sick saints and we're going alone.
Sick, sick saints and we're tired of unknown.
Sick, sick saints and we're not going home.
Sick, sick saints and we're breaking bones.

We're members of faith, geared up to give worship a taste
Of our Church of the Saturday Saints: we're sick, sick, sick saints.