The Tusu Evolution !

Death metal, gritty clear baritone with clipped rhythmic staccato phrasing and doubled hooks; double-tracked guitars with slide fills, driving octave bass lines, pounding toms, stop-start riffs, and a halftime bridge; driving 128 BPM; tape-saturated guitar bus, plate-reverb snare, live-room ambience.

Tusu…
The man. The myth.
The fucking nose!

This is how the Tusu evolved,
From crawling through dirt and mud,
To a wannabe playboy hero,
Reeking of road rash and blood.

He was a little creature,
Unknown, without a spark,
Until his weenie got a charge
And dragged him from the dark.

leather jacket on his back,
Another rip in his clothes,
You can hear the engine coming—
But first, you see the nose!

His nose! It’s the first thing through the door!
His nose! Then the rest comes back for more!
His greatest asset, standing tall,
The king of noses, lord of all—
Still couldn’t tell a bloody rose
From the arse of a sex doll!

At the feast of San Gaetano,
A conduit pipe landed a hit.
His bro flew over from Thailand
To check he was still strong and fit.

He missed his brother so damn much,
And his ex gave him just a little touch
She chucked him into the sea
“Wake up, you miserable bastard—
You’re staying right here with me!”

Haul him from the water,
Let him strike a hero’s pose.
You can barely see the bastard—
But you can always spot the nose!

His nose! It’s the first thing through the door!
His nose! Then the rest comes back for more!
His greatest asset, standing tall,
The king of noses, lord of all—
Still couldn’t tell a bloody rose
From the arse of a sex doll!

Then came the BMW crash—what a show,
And who got the blame? You already know.
Tusu got stuck with the trouble and strife—
The driver was a bloody inspector’s wife.

He’s tasted the tarmac, he’s chewed up the ground,
Laid his poor Hornet down, then gone back for another round.
Our biker brother keeps taking those blows,
Gets back in the saddle and follows his nose!

He learned to sing
like Cradle of Filth,
His screams made the Tower of Pisa
take a bloody tilt.
The crowd shouted and cried,
“Look there, it's Bon Jovi! Bon Jovi!”
and kept asking for more,
While bras flew past him
and piled on the floor.

But the worst is still to come,
When his sunshine brings her sweetheart home:
An Indian lad who’ll do fuck-all,
And ask him to marry his pretty doll.

You thought the bike crashes hurt?

His nose! It’s the first thing through the door!
His nose! Then the rest comes back for more!
His greatest asset, standing tall,
The king of noses, lord of all—
Still couldn’t tell a bloody rose
From the arse of a sex doll!

Through the dirt!
Through the blows!
Long live Tusu—
AND HIS FUCKING NOSE!