The Anatomist's Song: Dissecting the 10,000-Year-Old Lie

The Anatomist's Song: Dissecting the 10,000-Year-Old Lie

Link to the song:

https://soundcloud.com/dr-mester-funk/the-garden-turned-machine

-By a Doctor of the Forgotten Body-

(“DOCTOR” as in - A symbolic authority, the healer who remembers what the system forgot.)

My patients come seeking “health.”
They bring lab reports, supplement lists, and quiet despair.
I show them toxins, I show them pathogens, I show them protocols.
But true healing begins before the lab and beneath the skin.
It begins with the ghost in the machine—the wound that predates us all.
The one Marvin Harris, in Cannibals and Kings, exposed not as theory, but as anthropology’s crime scene report.

This song is that diagnosis set to rhythm.
This is not a review.
This is civilization on the autopsy table.

Verse 1: The Garden Turned Machine — The First Cut

“We were rivers once (flowing free), now irrigation lines (choked, owned)”

Once, we moved like water—hunter-gatherers, unowned, unmeasured, in reciprocity with what fed us.
Then came the dam, the plow, the fence. Agriculture wasn’t progress—it was the first incision.
The river was captured, tamed, renamed “resource.”
And the moment water was owned, people could be too.
We turned the flow into a ledger, the current into a contract.
From current to commodity. From kinship to yield.

“Population blooms like a fever… infants culled in the name of balance”

Harris called it the “fever of fertility.” Sedentary grain life made us multiply—but not thrive.
More mouths, less freedom. So we counted bones. We trimmed the tribe.
Life became arithmetic, not rhythm.
The cradle gave way to the census.

“Eat, they said—it’s growth (yeah), but we were the roast.”

The cruelest joke of the Neolithic.
“Growth” meant surplus for some, starvation for most.
Protein was power, so the kings kept it.
The priest’s plate was fat while the peasant’s was flat.
The body politic literally starved so the body royal could expand.
We were told to be grateful for grain.
But we were never guests at the feast. We were the feast.

Chorus: The Altar of Enslavement

“We built our altars out of grain / Fed gods the meat, then wore the chain”

Every civilization built a temple; every temple sat atop a granary.
That’s not symbolism—that’s structure.
The grain stored control. The sacrifice fed hierarchy.
The “gods” didn’t eat metaphorical lambs. Their priests did.
The people were left with ritual and starch, the rulers with steak and strength.
That’s the original dietary law: keep the populace obedient by keeping them anemic.
The first public-health policy was nutritional subjugation disguised as virtue.

We fed ourselves the carbs and catechisms.
They ate the marrow and the power.
The chain wasn’t forged from iron—it was baked in ovens.

Verses 2 & 3: The New Priests, Same Scam

“The sword writes scripture faster than blood can flood.”
“The priest sold forgiveness wholesale.”
“Temples made of debt.”

The monarchy became theology.
The theology became finance.
Same altar, different clergy.

The King hoarded meat for his soldiers.
The Priest sanctified the hunger.
The Banker monetized the deficit.
The result is identical: a population trained to worship scarcity.

The modern sermon says “save the planet.”
Translation: obey the same rationing script with a greener font.
Lab meat, soy gospel, synthetic salvation—it’s the same control system
with a Wi-Fi connection and a smiling logo.
Harris warned us: ecological rhetoric can hide political teeth.

Bridge & Bones: The Quiet Coup

“Change doesn’t come with sirens, it drips (slow)… By the time we wake, the crown’s already warm.”

Empires don’t fall; they molt.
They shed old skin for new slogans.
We trade whips for wellness programs, edicts for “safety standards.”
No one hears the coup; it hums in the background, regulatory and polite.

“Every throne was carved from someone else’s spine.”

That line is not a metaphor.
Every system of control stands upright because enough backs have bent beneath it.
Medicine, law, food, finance—it’s all spinal architecture.
Your compliance is their posture. Your surrender, their seat.

Outro: The Fridge Hum of History

“History hums in the background like a fridge / A quiet machine, cold and full of leftovers.”

This is where we live now—in the refrigeration stage of empire.
Everything preserved, nothing alive.
Our diseases are just the body remembering what freedom tasted like.
Autoimmunity, depression, infertility—they are cellular protest songs.
The hum is not comfort; it’s containment.

We are still eating from the same cold machine,
still digesting the leftovers of hierarchy.
To heal is to unplug it.

When I look at a patient, I see not disorder but archaeology.
The bones of old bargains. The bloodline of rationed protein.
To treat them, I must first remember the river—
that once we flowed, unowned, uncounted.

Healing is rebellion disguised as biology.
It is returning to the source without asking permission.
It is the refusal to be dinner again.