Even God fearing folks can be drive to crime if the moon hangs right. Brains encased in proteins pick up the vibrations of other beings, and refocus it into anti social behaviour. There's an inherent appeal to doing wrong things. We all want to know how it tastes, likely because our parents told us not to touch it.

A man wakes up. He brushes his teeth before he kisses his wife. He dresses for work and leaves the house. Before he's made it to the train, he's kicked a child into traffic and punched a homeless man for no reason. His brain is picking up vibrations from other beings and bouncing it as violence. The rock has been rolled away from his cave, and he's free to behave as a radio tower. He’s sending ideas and feelings out into the world. Those closest to him receive the signal loudly; those further away may him only as a tinny echo.

He declares: "guns are only scary because someone else owns one", and purchases a pistol from the contractor working on his home. When his wife is out, he twirls the gun and pretends he's shooting burglars at his window. He talks in slang he's learned from films. The man's neighbour calls the police when he's observed on the back deck pistol-whipping a bag of potatoes. The incident ends with a standoff, in which one state trooper is killed and the the man is wounded.

During his 14-year stay on death row, the man never displays the sort of violence he did from the episode that landed him there. His wife remarries, and after his parents die he no longer receives visitors. The other inmates regard him highly and consult him for help with their legal proceedings. He tends not to think of himself as happy or unhappy, but constant and existing. He reads a lot.

When that rock gets rolled away, I suspect you'll be hungry.
When that rock gets rolled away, I suspect you'll want a drink.
When that rock gets rolled away, I suspect you'll pray for woman.
When that rock gets rolled away, I suspect you'll need a break.
When that rock gets rolled away, I suspect you'll hear some cheering.
When that rock gets rolled away, I suspect you'll fiend for crime.
When that rock gets rolled away, I suspect you'll ask direction.
When that rock gets rolled away, I suspect you'll make up for lost time.



Lyrics submitted by UntoDawn

M1911 song meanings
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