by Patrick Howley
First Verse
A stranger sat down at a tiki bar. He kind of looked like a Fed.
He told me if I repeat a story, I would probably end up dead.
He told me about an island that you may not even know.
A private party island for the elites, but you never ever want to go.
An evil billionaire and all his crooked friends did weird temple demon stuff.
Were they CIA, Mossad, or both? The people have finally had enough.
Chorus
Don’t go to the island, folks. Don’t camp out at Bohemian Grove.
Don’t go to human hunting parties. You’ll be selling your mortal soul.
Don’t spirit cook any pizza or hot dogs if the globalists invite you for a stay.
You’ll get famous and wealthy, but in the afterlife you’ll pay.
2nd Verse
Bill Clinton hung out with Epstein. So did Chris Tucker from ‘Rush Hour’ fame.
Hollywood doesn’t want to talk about how Kevin Spacey flew on the plane.
Pam Bondi won’t release the files about all the blackmailed DC sleaze
And all the horrible things they did to kids in that sinister island breeze.
Some blackmailed shills are still in power, especially in America’s capital city.
But the rats will run to hide and cower when we find out who freaked-out with Diddy.
Repeat Chorus
Don’t go to the island, folks. Don’t camp out at Bohemian Grove.
Don’t go to human hunting parties. You’ll be selling your mortal soul.
Don’t spirit cook any pizza or hot dogs if the globalists invite you for a stay.
You’ll get famous and wealthy, but in the afterlife you’ll pay.
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