Conspiracy Abyss - Plexiglass Caskets (official audio)

Conspiracy Abyss conjures eerie, experimental hi-fi melodic trap, unraveling chaotic speculation and truth-twisting wonder. Dive into the schizophrenic icons of the impossible. Can there be anything more beautiful than considering the possibility of the impossible?

All characters are fictional. Stream now and follow for more!

**HUMAN CRAFTED - AI ENHANCED**

ShiversLab.com

#experimentaltrap #eeriemusic #melodictrap #ShiversLab #NewMusic #IndieVibes #MusicForYou #ViralSound #fyp

**LYRICS:**

(Verse 1)

Flickering fluorescents hum the hymn of the hollow,
Aisles stretch endless where lost souls wallow.
Checkout lines loop like Möbius strips,
Demons price-checking damnation with shit-eating grins.

The greeters don’t blink—their pupils are voids,
Eyes like security cameras tallying sins.
"Rollback" prices on sanity’s tags,
While the PA system gargles through static like maggots in bags.

(Pre-Chorus)

"Attention, shoppers: Hell’s in Aisle 3”
Bargain-bin lust and HD misery.
Blue vest ghouls restock the despair,
And the bathroom’s a Stygian confessional there…"

(Chorus)

Oh, Walmart’s no store—it’s a squamous bazaar,
Where the 4th-dimension clerks scan your scars.
Demons dress casual, chanting in receipts,
"Savings" just means they’re harvesting your heat.
Cartfuls of curses, self-checkout hexes,
The only thing "saved" here? Your soul in plexiglass caskets.

(Verse 2)

The toy section’s a nursery for homunculi young,
Their laughter’s a glitch in the overhead tongue.
"Family Pack" meat? Try trauma condensed,
The butcher’s a shade with a name tag that says "Clarence."

The parking lot’s painted in sigils unseen,
Tire marks whisper "Yog-Sothoth on clearance."
And the Walmart Radio croons dead pop hits,
While the ceiling tiles pulse like diseased astronaut suits.

(Bridge)

"Smileys" decay to a rictus of need,
The Subway’s a throat where the starving feed.
Every "Hello!" is a hex undisguised,
And the exit’s a myth where the shopping carts rise.

(Chorus)

Oh, Walmart’s no store—it’s a squamous bazaar,
Where the 4th-dimension clerks scan your scars.
Demons dress casual, chanting in receipts,
"Savings" just means they’re harvesting your heat.
Cartfuls of curses, self-checkout hexes,
The only thing "saved" here? Your soul in plexiglass caskets.

(Outro)

"Thank you for shopping.
Your data’s been logged.
Please donate to Hell’s Fund.
And remember: no bags…
No bags…
No bags…"