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  1. Year 7

Recorded at the Classicconcept studio in Lichtenfels (Germany)
under the guidance of Thomas Meyer (www.classicconcept.com)
Guitar/vocals: Ed Schmidt
Original musical idea: Joshua Schmidt
All other instrumentation: Thomas Meyer
Lyrics by Iraqi blogger Layla Anwar (http://arabwomanblues.blogspot.com)

Lyrics

7 years ago in a dark delivery room,
obstetricians and midwives gathered round.
A tattered old mattress was covered with torn sheets,
while rats and roaches scurried past.
7 years ago, screams of agony were heard,
midwives rushed, for the birth of this new infant.
No gloves, syringes, nor anesthesia were present,
for this stubborn, hard headed, and non-submissive.
It was designed, genetically modified,
cloned and concieved overseas.
Implanted in vitro, through brutal gang rape,
implanted in her womb, one dark night.
No electricity that night, just the brisk light,
projected missiles fell like shooting stars.
Obstetricians and midwives, rubbed their hands with
glee, said:
“watch the fireworks greeting your newborn.”
Delivery was slow, much slower than predicted,
a 1.000 forceps to pull it out by force.
Deliver, deliver, deliver they commanded,
she was hemorrhaging, paralyzed, and in coma.
It was designed, genetically modified,
cloned and concieved overseas.
Implanted in vitro, through brutal gang rape,
implanted in her womb, one dark night.
They stuffed her womb, with articles and essays,
gagging her and taping her lips.
Sealing them with ploys, secrets, and lies,
and overseen scripts.
Kicking, resisting, squirming under their forceps,
they handcuffed her wrists to the bed.
Wrapped chains around her ankles, and blindfolded
her, with bags made of desert sand.
It was designed, genetically modified,
cloned and concieved overseas.
Implanted in vitro, through brutal gang rape,
implanted in her womb, one dark night.
Deliver, deliver, deliver they commanded,
and what shall we call it, how about that for a name.
Buffalo Bill, Liberation, Mullah Freedom,
in that dark delivery room.
Rats and roaches, and forgotten walls,
splashed with fresh blood from her womb.
Smears of a million hands, plastered like banners,
on smouldering, smoking grey walls.
It was designed, genetically modified,
cloned and concieved overseas.
Implanted in vitro, through brutal gang rape,
implanted in her womb, one dark night.
No roses nor sweets, were there to greet,
a tradition for any newborn.
Plates of bones and flesh, circulated around,
an offering to liberation and freedom.
A crib made of ghettos, dungeons, and ruins,
rubble, graves, and piles of garbage.
It could comfortably nap with all of them,
one day here, one day there.
As toys their were guns, drills, ropes, chains and hooks,
and its playground was the cemeteries.
Fed with urine, blood, excrement, and bullets,
and decomposed putrid corpses.
Now the city is quiet, a ghostly silence,
mummified with slogans and jargon.
Muffled wails can be heard, not far in the distance,
ululations of liberation and freedom.
Liberation and freedom.
Liberation