New hydroponic sketches of freakdom from Sheffield that should satisfy those of you with that roaring appetite for freedumb jams and methnic drone-outs. I hear delerious barkings of glue factory workers, the hanging heaviness of the local nut houses ‘drum and squal’ therapy sessions, pockmarked harmonium hymns to Harry Pussy, and whole bunch of giblets that I can’t quite put my fingers in, but it sure does make one of my eyes twitch, so I say let the sweltering fog descend, we don’t need no torch.
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chocolate monk
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