THE 44TH WORST ALBUM EVER

No one put in the time to study when definition expanded, from appeal to speak the truth to curse like a sailor, when I swear turned support-group fodder.

In the scenario of fantasy, the comic book rough draft, oath often begins as a promise: to defend the code, to suppress evil. Profanity dwells in failure, the clumsy prick of a vein to extract red ink, vocals out of key. Paycheck critics curse the concept album, labeling it the children’s cereal wreaking havoc on adult bodies, while others sign paychecks over to the Korporation. They watch profits glitter in documentaries, Kiss Kam™ confections marketed as confessions, smudged borders of three-chord anthem and farce, where both brands of oath can thrive.