The night is blistering, the humidity is high. Close, it’s getting close. Your hair sticks to your neck, the shirt clings to your chest and the drums beat faster, harder. They dance, with ferocity they dance. The sweet smell of magnolia fills your nostrils and the sky is a blaze with reds and ambers as the silhouettes interchange across the fire. They sing “Coming up slow from the back lane aint got time son” Rattlin’ bones and white eyed chanting. “Coming up slow from the back lane aint got time son”
Some say they crawled out of the swamp land out beyond the bayou, a saviour to the lost souls of a forgotten dream. From the ether they come. They bring hope from desperation, power to the weak, and they burn baby burn in the sweet glory of salvation. But there is no redemption here.
Thou shalt not repent or walk a path divine.
“Coming up slow from the back lane aint got time son” Become the rhythm, feel the beat, let it transport you. “Coming up slow from the back lane aint got time son” Closer they come…. count them. One, two, three, four, five, six. Run Devil run. But fear not. For the day of the Deadbeats is coming. And we shall all bear witness to its glory.
”COMING UP SLOW FROM THE BACK LANE AINT GOT TIME SON”