Bobby Pizazz FocusedChords9686
swamp blues, soul
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December 1, 2025 at 3:48 PMv5
[Intro – spoken, dead mic, courtroom style]
Genesee County Circuit Court, Case dismissed.
Flint, Michigan, December 2025.
They thought the water was the only thing poisoned.
Listen close.
[Verse 1]
Flint, Michigan – birthplace of the American Dream,
Now the wet-dream capital of Jesuit pedophile schemes.
WEF, WHO, New-World-Order throne,
Chrislam flags flyin’ while the kids bleed alone.
King Saul in fishnets, drag-queen judges on the bench,
Flamboyant penis-whores swearin’ in the next wench.
Fr. Spitzley’s swat team kickin’ doors at 3 a.m.,
Forged warrants signed in semen for Liberal Jesus men.
[Verse 2]
They paid my own blood thirty pieces of silver cash,
To lie on the stand, put their brother in the trash.
Murder, cyber-terrorism, attempted hits, election fraud,
Water crisis body count – still praisin’ their fraud god.
FBI field office takin’ orders from the Pope’s throne,
White House interns deletin’ texts on burner phones.
From the Oval Office desk to the Flint River bank,
Same snake, different skin, same pedophile rank.
[Verse 3 – slower, almost whispered]
They thought a SWAT team and a gag order would shut me up,
Thought a paid-off cousin and a fake psych hold was enough.
But the Great I AM don’t file motions in their court,
He just flips the table and cuts the money short.
Luke 8:17 – nothin’ hidden that won’t be known,
Every Boy Scout sodomized, every Girl Scout overthrown.
Every poisoned faucet, every forged signature in ink,
Every White House memo flushed down the same damn sink.
[Bridge – single slide guitar wail, no drums]
No more luck, motherfuckers.
Your luck just ran dry.
The same water you poisoned is risin’ waist-high.
And it’s carryin’ names, dates, receipts, and cries,
Straight from Flint Avenue to Pennsylvania Avenue skies.
[Final Verse – full band slams back in, raw and ragged]
So when they ask why I won’t shut up, won’t take the plea,
Tell ’em the kids in Flint still can’t drink from the sink free.
Tell ’em the White House lawn’s got Flint blood in the grass,
And the Great I AM just scheduled judgment day – first-class.
No more luck.
No more hush.
No more paid-off family, no more Jesuit blush.
From the courthouse steps to 1600 Penn,
The real King’s comin’ – and He ain’t takin’ no men.
[Outro – one child’s voice from Flint, clear as clean water]
“Mr. President…
why does my water still taste like lies?”
(Guitar string snaps.
Dead silence.
Then the sound of a million handcuffs clicking at once.)
Go on, that'll do it.