The Sloth Cycle (Volume 1)

by Sloth Metropolis

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The tale of a city and a slowly waking sloth. A vision of the early twothousandandtens through the eyes of early twenties. Looking for the monomyth in everyday monotony. Welcome, to Sloth Metropolis.

(Click the 'Lyrics' tab to follow story of The Sloth)


released August 8, 2014

Steve McNamara - Drums, Spoken Word on track 6
Lewis MacKenzie - Bass
Calum Calderwood - Electric-Violin, Vocals, Harmonica, Turkish Reed Pipe, Keys on track 1, 3 and 4, acoustic guitar on track 6 & 7
Alastair Milton - Keys, Clarinet, Spoken Word on track 6
Eddy Lee - Guitar on tracks 1-4
Nadia Palma and Randolph Edwards - Additional Vocals on track 8

Engineered by Steve, Mixed by Calum. Words by Calum, music by Sloth Metropolis.



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Sloth Metropolis Glasgow, UK

The Sloth of the Metropolis
Woke up from deep sleep
In a flat in a familiar town
With familiar streets

Now he explores the city
Waking everyone he meets

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Track Name: Sloth of the Metropolis
The sound of snores between bird tweets. The Sloth sleeps, for now...

A typical tenement block,
The hallway smelling of pish and bleach as it usually does.
But within one flat is a world of vine and leaf
The Sloth of the Metropolis in his own mini-Amazon
Lies languid on a branch
Reggae on his rather elaborate hi-fi system
As he drifts in and out of sleep
But it’s time for him to wake up…

“Wake up at midday and get on my clothes
Read my to-do list and do none of those
Switch on the lap top and watch a few shows
See how the world in a cup of tea grows”

“Hanging around in the middle of town
Out on a limb with my head hanging down
So soporific, can’t seem to come round
Rattling Ritalin king with no crown”

“And oh, I know I’m lazy now
But I’ll change somehow”

Sloth of the Metropolis,
Sweaty self-lobotomist
Bong smoke down oesophagus
Motiveless and motionless

He’s gotta wake up now…

Sloth of the Metropolis
he hears a ringing at his doorbell now
Oh what a sound
He tried to ignore
Somehow that ringing just rang out some more
Right to his core
Pulled himself off his branch
Turned down the stereo, walked down the hall
To answer the call
He turns the handle now, oh what has he found?

“Well It’s your mate Owen
And I’ve been owing you a visit for a while now
Get ready cuz we’re going
We’re going out into Glasgow town
I know you’re a sloth but you’ve got to get off
Of you’re branch and come on outside
You may be slow but you know you can catch up
Come on and give it a try”
Track Name: Modern Aristotle
The tastes of wine and good times lit up the Sloth’s fuzzy wee mind, leading him through streets with wide-eye wonder. He and Owen laughed and capered, ran, danced and elbowed, swaggered and gibbered. But then, when the sheen of novelty dulled, something clicked and the Sloth sobered.

He saw a load of have-nots not having all over the shop, all over the shop-floors, and the shop windows washed white and empty. Grey grizzled faces shrivelled, polyester cups for spare coppers, scrapped cars and tag marks tarring forbidden sidestreets, and everywhere the sound of bright sparking genius squandered, fading and fizzling. Why? Why the long faces and short change? To the Sloth, it all seemed strange.

Seven billion people and there’s no one to blame
Some say there’s seventy million getting all of the gain
Well that may be true, but can you explain
How a spot of happy camping will blow them away?
How will it blow them away?

Modern Aristotle on the minimum wage
Einstein mind on gyro day
The next Van Gogh on a work scheme forced
To clean up the shit from the toilet floors
But shrinking prophits are a thing of the past
And Jobbie's cult is growing fast
They're waiting in a queue for a shade of grey
And a permanent holiday

There's a shark in the suit of a man from the west
Sipping his tea the way that he knows best
The water is infested wherever he's invested
The rest is filled with his victims digested
Lucy, watch out for Mr Diamond
Sharks don't Barc, dead dogs Lay silent
At the rates he's going he's going to turn violent
Lift up the rigging and we're on our way

Seven billion people and there’s no one to blame?
It seems there’s one or two who won’t play fair at the game
I’m not sure what, but I’m left in no doubt
That we need some new ideas to figure it out
We’ve got to figure it out
Track Name: Wee Fib
Poverty, sickness, old age. Wrongess and rightness? The Sloth didn’t like this.
“How do you put up with this business? How do you make sense of it?” He asked Owen.
“Everyone has their own way, their own spin,” Owen replied, for once without his happy-go-lucky grin.
“As for the second question, some come up with ideas half or more fully baked than others. On the path to en-knowingwhatthehellisgoingon-enment, there are tons of traps and potholes. Watch out for cut corners and shady shysters, mental blockages and lazy spillages, arrogance and contented ignorance. We may never get it right, but the alternative—a life left unexamined—is pretty shite.”

I’m a this/that, you’re a this/that/the other ‘un
He’s a which/what and she’s nothing but another ‘un
We are these though they are those, though then again
Maybe they’re these and those are just them again?
Track Name: Big Lie
After trying division, minute definition, he tries the Big Lie of the opposite vision.

Tounge-eyed tele-evangelist with his pulse on the apocalypse
The smell of hell and tangerines and odd socks lost preposterous
With mayan miscalculations on the eve of things profound
If I had a pound for everyone I’d have a lot of pounds

So tell me why
Tell me why
Is that a fact?
Or is it just a big lie?

Is jesus just Prometheus, was Apollo just a joke?
Is 999 a sex line designed to make you want to boke?
Is the Sasquatch watching over us from rocky mountain high?
Was rosebud and the third man sending red weed from the sky?

If you give me all your money then I’ll tell you a secret
Only gold or maybe silver will allow me to speak it
A one time special offer for a mystical banquet
That will tear away the twisted metaphysical blanket
From your eyes, oh from your eyes
You’ll see the world without disguise

I don’t know and you don’t know
And we don’t know one bit
But Ockham had a razor

You’ve got to simplify
A few less words coming out of your mouth
Come on & just give it a try

The new world will be ordered by a lucky chosen few
Who spread their dread diseases giving Tweety-pie the flu
And shedding off her human skin, our scaly reptile queen
The irony it seems to me the truth is more obscene
Track Name: Attack! (A Different Departure)
The ‘Tarasque de Noves’ is a Celtic sculpture, roughly 2000 years old. It’s a weird scaly dragon-lion-dog type thing, chewing on a human arm and resting its front paws on a pair of severed heads. Historians think it might represent a god worshipped as part of a cult of war or death by the local tribe, the Cavares. Pretty horrific—why would anyone worship something like that?

Cavares translates as ‘heroes’ or ‘champions’. Some heroes, like The Sloth, can’t wait to set off on their adventure. Others need to be led, pushed on into the belly of the beast, to face that thing that has to be faced sooner or later. We’re about to meet one of these reluctant heroes. And the Tarasque is an expert in offering the much needed nudge…


‘I was going to stay in
And watch a bit of Corry
Invited to the boozer
I said “no I’m sorry,
I’m busy”

And my boy’s got football
In the morning
I’m driving him
So I can’t still be snoring
And the wife says
I’m on my final warning

He says “no you’re not
You’re coming with me”
So I go to the pub
And one pint turns to three
It’s time that I was home
But he turns and he says


He’s a man without conviction,
Decision or intention
Going with the flow
Without a single new invention
But underneath the surface
there’s potential for progression
He won’t hear the summons
so we’re gonna need a little aggression

Slipping out his shadow
There’s a wheeling dealing creature
A scaly tarasque
Playing Mr. Motivator
Creating situations
Where sooner or later
This case of bad faith
Will have to turn himself
Into a free agent

Handy man-made manticore
Placate him with another war
And wear him
Right down to the bone
Declare him
A thing that you own

This scaly tortoise-shelled Tarasque
Harassed a basking shark unmasked
As someone
You’d rather avoid
The remnant
Of something destroyed

So out the trench you’re swiftly sent
Unarmed and without nourishment
You close your eyes you hit n hope
With flailing fist you go for broke…


He Who Cannot Be Arsed sits in silence, his mate waiting for an answer. Inside, he twists and divides. He doesn’t want to disappoint, and after all, it’s only a pint.

The glass that is his mind seems filled to the brim with the poisons of guilt and indecision. It turns on him, looming large and threatening.

Now in comes the Tarasque, “right, are you going to stand up to this obnoxious arse?” he says, pointing to the monstrous glass.

The Man steps up, he knows it’s right. The bell strikes, and the Tarasque shouts



It’s a six-shooting renegade hard man
A barrel, a lion, a desert, a storm
It’s dynamite rolled up in thunder
With flesh eating lazers for arms
And you’re just a twitch
and a flea bite
A speck on the rug
and a drop from a pore
With miniature fists
just like protons
Facing grievous bodily harm

Try put it back in perspective
No clash of the titans
or underdog yarn
It’s really just you and a pint glass
So let’s have a wee bit of calm
Get in the ring, get your gloves on
Approach your opponent
with caution and care
Feel the right moment caress you
Then strike him
from foot up to hair


Well the man who was jeered
He was jeered no more
He roundhoused his weakness
Which fell to the floor
The sloth and the speed freak
That battled within
Were rolled in a ball
And then thrown in the bin
Everything was spacious
Graceful and clear
Lacking attacks of panic and fear
He picked up his coat
Said goodbye to his friends
And this is the point where his
Story now ends.
Track Name: Newsagent
The Sloth of the Metropolis left his lair and went wandering the streets of Glasgow. He’s drank plenty wine, but still feels thirsty. Maybe this newsagents can help him out?

He goes in for a can of juice. Looking down the aisles, all he sees is stacks and stacks of pornography.

“What’s this all about? I thought the sign outside said this was a newsagents?” he asks the shopkeeper, pointing out the utter absence of newspapers, never mind a can of something sweet.

The newsagent gives a sly smile, glad to have a captive audience.

“You really want to know? Well, let me tell ya…”

For every single thing
That you can think of
There's a person
Getting sexual arousal
There are thousands upon thousands
Of paraphilias, fetishes
I believe there is
More than you can mention
It's insane, more than you can name
Some of them are simple
Like age, face, race, waist
Tits, lips, other bits,
Then it gets serious
Donkey dicks, asphyxiation
Nappies, feces, amputation
Forniphilia; turning someone into furniture
Klismaphilia; when you're really into enemas
Plushophilia; taking teddy to bed
Necrophilia; when you're better off dead
I just try to supply to the customer
What he's lusting for, wanting more,
Need another score
More than just a business,
An important public service
You all deserve this so i have to serve this.

I am a humble newsagent
with a real clear mission in mind
Whatever turns you on,
on my shelves I hope you will find
I am a humble newsagent
with a real clear mission in mind
Covered up in plastic coloured silver,
your phantasy is somewhere inside
Is somewhere inside…"
Track Name: Welder
“Some people just love what they do I guess,” the Sloth thinks, “or are just better at justifying themselves than all the rest.”

He goes to the ATM to withdraw some cash, but the balance reads zero. Out of luck Sloth, Looks like you’ll have to find yourself a job.

“It’ll wait til the morning” says Owen, his friend. He lends Sloth a fiver and leads him to the party they plan to attend. The host, Jamie, knows as much as most the struggle of finding a suitable yet useful profession. He gives the Sloth his tragic confession…

Jamie was 20, a student at uni
Studying history of art
Quite undecided but still he derided
What his subject had to impart
Most of his friends they were young & bohemian
Post-modern, Ray Bans and synths
His band they played hardcore
but it made his throat sore
And loud noises caused him to wince

One night at a party he went on the bevy
And as he was drinking then he started thinking
He said…

“I wanna make something with these hands
Be a welder, be a real man
I wanna have money and a mortgage too
Because doing what I do is useless, it’s true.”

Jamie was 20, a welder soon to be
Apprenticeship well under way
Exited to feel like his manhood was real
And that soon he’d be getting some pay

He went to the firm but he started to squirm
When he heard what the foreman would say every day

I’m an artist working in metallurgy
I’m really in to Wassily Kandinsky
Now you’re gonna make masterpieces too
Because doing what we do is useful, it’s true.”
Track Name: Summertime Buddha
“But you don’t need to repeat the same mistakes as me. I know someone who works at the Kelvingrove. The taxidermy sloth there is looking pretty flea bitten, so they’re after a replacement. If you can sit still & play dead, like sloths do best, I’m sure they’d give you the job.”

The Sloth is now solvent, surrounded by friends, wishing this perfect night might never end. He’s climbed Maslow’s ladder a couple of rungs, so now the real work of his life has begun…

When the days are long but the hours short
When the work is done and the lesson taught
There’s a mad mandala in a third eye
There’s an inner light from an outer sky

I always wanna be a Buddha in the summer

But when the sun goes away
It seems this feeling will not stay

When the leaves all fall and the days are short
Winter brings its own rewards
Pagan rites, distorted mics
Firework and flame on November nights
Solstice back at the highland home
Electric wizard on a Dark throne
Hibernation for a dozen weeks
Hibernation while the summer sleeps

But when the sun comes back around
It seems this feeling has been re-found…