[Spoken Intro] [gritty, bro‑country industrial tone]
I wasn’t always in this mess.
Used to be a mercenary with a master’s in structural engineering,
yeah, weird combo, but the money was good and the dams were solid.
Then one job went sideways.
Scaffold snapped, river took me under,
and I woke up in a pile of mud surrounded by beavers
like some kind of woodland intervention.
That’s when he showed up,
the beaver shaman.
Old, scarred, eyes like wet gravel.
Didn’t speak, but somehow I understood every word he whispered.
(“Chew the truth, son. The river don’t lie.”)
Stop doing that.
(“I whisper because the spirits are loud.”)
You whisper because you’re annoying.
Anyway…
they patched me up, fed me bark tea,
and the shaman said I had “the makings of a dam‑walker.”
Didn’t know what that meant.
Still don’t.
But ever since then he’s been in my head
like a furry, mystical foreman I never hired.
And something else changed…
I got this urge now,
to cut.
Wood, metal, obstacles, problems,
anything that needs clearing.
The shaman calls it “the river’s hunger.”
I call it a liability.
And yeah,
I still got my revolver.
Six shots left.
Each one forged in a beaver‑run furnace
I’m not wasting them.

[Verse 1] [mercenary grit meets beaver mysticism]
I built walls for war and dams for peace,
took contracts from kings and jobs from police.
Now I’m stuck in a world where the rivers talk back,
and a beaver shaman whispers every time I lose track.
(“Your spirit’s crooked. Needs sanding.”)
I don’t need sanding.
(“Everyone needs sanding.”)
Got instincts gnawin’, claws I don’t remember earnin’,
and a mind split three ways like a log I’m churnin’.
Mercenary muscle, engineer brain,
and a beaver shaman chanting in my veins.

[HOOK] [LOCKED IN, BRO COUNTRY SWAGGER]
WOOD you look at that, I’m the dam‑born brute,
steel‑toed swagger in a flannel suit.
CHEW THROUGH CHAOS, I DON’T GIVE A DAMN,
I’m the beaver‑blessed, man‑made, mud‑stained man.

[Verse 2] [the cutting instinct + chainsaws]
I’m a contractor of carnage, a lumberjack of fate,
patchin’ cosmic leaks with a tail‑slap gait.

(“Your posture’s bad.”)
I don’t have a tail.
(“Spiritually, you do.”)
Stop.
Got chainsaws strapped silent to the back of my fists,
cutting clean through problems like they don’t exist.
(“Cut the path.”)
No.
(“Cut the doubt.”)
Stop it.
(“Cut the silence too.”)
You ARE the silence.
And the gun?
Yeah, I still got it,
six shots left and every one’s a damn event.
(“Fire one.”)
No.
(“Fire two.”)
Absolutely not.
(“Fire three—”)
I’m ignoring you.
Didn’t ask for a shaman, didn’t ask for a lodge,
didn’t ask to be the universe’s unpaid intern.
But here I am, chewin’ through destiny’s bark,
buildin’ dams in the daylight and arguin’ after dark.

[Bridge] [emotional moment ruined by whispers]
Sometimes I miss the old jobs…
the clean contracts…
the simple violence…
the dams that didn’t talk back.
(“The river remembers you.”)
I don’t want it to remember me.
(“Too late. It sings your name.”)
Please stop.

[Final Hook] [same swagger, more chaos]
WOOD you look at that, I’m the dam‑born brute,
steel‑toed swagger in a flannel suit.
CHEW THROUGH CHAOS, I DON’T GIVE A DAMN,
I’m the beaver‑blessed, man‑made, mud‑stained man.

(“And spiritually sanded.”)
Shut up…