Serpent

Tommee Profitt turns the garden's oldest warning into a chase scene, where temptation arrives as a hiss rather than a fruit. The serpent is drawn with venomous detail — a flicking tongue, breath that smells of lies, scales that bend the singer's own words until they sound like someone else's. The chorus is a bare command repeated like a rope thrown to a drowning man: don't listen, run. What keeps the song from being only fear is the second half's defiance. The singer looks the snake in the eye, sees the light, and refuses the bait of pride and poison. Revenge is named and rejected — "I won't get forsaken" — and failure itself gets repurposed as fuel rather than shame. The final lines strip everything down to running, the same two words over and over, as if the only prayer left is forward motion. It's a song about resisting a voice that sounds reasonable until you notice the scales.