Lyrics

The store is dark.
The instruments hang like sleeping animals.

There’s a hush that isn’t silence—
it’s the kind of hush that listens back.

FRANK stands alone in the middle of the floor.
No light but what bleeds from the neon sign outside.
His shadow stretches across the cracked linoleum like a question still unanswered.

A single bass guitar hums as he brushes past it—
not plugged in, but vibrating anyway.

He lights a cigarette.
Strums his acoustic once.
And begins to sing—not to anyone, but to the water beneath the town.

🎵 "I been fishin’ in dreams and pullin’ up names,
Politicians with gills, wearin’ Sunday chains.
They promised us light, but they sold us the flood,
And I still smell salt when I’m bleedin’ my blood.” 🎵
He shifts.
Voice cracking.
Still singing.

🎵 “I’m the Fish Monger, not the priest.
I don’t save souls, I just cut the beast.
Lay it on ice, let the eyes go gray—
You want the truth, boy? It’s filleted this way." 🎵
Behind him, a guitar string snaps.
No one touched it.

Frank doesn’t flinch.

He keeps singing.
And now—he’s not alone.
Something’s listening.
Something old.
Something underneath.

He speaks, mid-song:

“I know you down there.
I know you feel it.
Glen came back.
William’s awake.
Mac’s in the ground but he ain’t done yet.”
“And me? I’m just keepin’ the truth slippery enough to pass through.”
He sits.
Right there on the floor.
And sings, quieter now:

🎵 “They think it’s stories, they think it’s lies,
But I seen the tail, and I heard the cries.
So I sing to the current and I play to the bone—
Fish Monger’s here, and I ain’t alone.” 🎵
And in the silence that follows…
The pipes below the floor gurgle once.
Not a warning.
Not a threat.

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