The Witching Hour

Hiding out in the basement with a glass of red wine, my throat raw, sickly sweet, the wheels of steel, my magic box whispering to come out and play. Just a couple of tokes, a quick set, a few tracks. Keep it low, they say, easy on the bass. But what I want to know is where in the fuck are all these tiny little flies coming from? I swear to God if there's another rotting rat corpse in the crawlspace the cats are dead and we're moving to California.