|Vocals, Programming, Composer:||Matt Mehana|
|Drums, Programming, Percussion, Keyboards, Synthesizers, Guitars, Composer:||Chris Lent|
Watch your back or I'll have your girlfriend on hers. Keep that nympholeptic, my typo chick is hypodermic. I'm a sonic salesmen. Handling a briefcase loaded with frequencies provided for the deaf-and-dumb. Salivating fuzzed receptions, still have their lips suctioned on my thumb. Just trying to lighten up the mood dude, blowin' out your attitude. Now remain your ass calm. Or I make you disappear, after I clear this smoke bomb. I'm glad irrepressible tremors, carry zero context or tone. Bashed that skull cap, with your own cellular phone. Found malodorous residue, I have a feeling they barbecued you. Beings were blaring queer diapason jams, Centrifugally forced to cash grand galactic grams. A flexible cystotome like device saw what was flawed, the biopsy was an indelible optical saccade. Achromatic couldn't find its chroma with the help of fate. Leader precentor hocks a sacred lodged key. The frantic search for me, begins unceremoniously. Intra-axonally whiplashed exemplary ages ago. Chucked the longest geographical stretch, a span can depot. Please, hubristic disease, incarnate each cathexes. Foaming alchemical dust debris. Clumpy excerpts are droopy guarantees.
I SET MY FRIENDS ON FIRE have always followed their own musical path and that's evident by listening to just a few seconds of the …