Defenders of the Small Yard

by Moron Police

supported by
Nicolas RESSOT
Nicolas RESSOT thumbnail
Nicolas RESSOT Histoire de réadapter une célèbre accroche pour les compils de classique : j'aime pas la pop-rock, mais ça j'aime ! Je dirais même que j'adore ce disque qui me fait penser parfois à Freak kitchen (sans les solis aussi déjantés). Bref, un coup de coeur, comme qui dirait ! Favorite track: Go Home, Bitch!.
Rhokeheart thumbnail
Rhokeheart This album is awesome! It has a sort of poppy, funny, disco, funk, metal, fusion going on and these guys pull it off beautifully. Been playing this one alot. Favorite track: Black Woman.
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  • Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    CD of our second album "Defenders of The Small Yard" with artwork by Dulk and music by us!

    Includes unlimited streaming of Defenders of the Small Yard via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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  • Record/Vinyl + Digital Album

    Beautiful gatefold of our second album "Defefenders of the Small Yard" with amazing artwork by Mr. Dulk.

    SHIPPING NOTE: We're sorry shipping is so high, Norway's national post-office is a cruel mistress.

    Includes unlimited streaming of Defenders of the Small Yard via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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  • T-Shirt/Apparel + Digital Album

    T-short with the logo of our second album "Defenders of the Small Yard"
    Comes in M, L, XL, XXL

    Includes unlimited streaming of Defenders of the Small Yard via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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A crazy blend of styles centered around rock, prog, pop and awesome songs with very catchy choruses.

The sophomore album from undefinable Moron Police, "Defenders of the Small Yard" is a testament to weirdness and catchy tunes that will either leave you mildly disgusted or incredibly intrigued - or somewhere in between those two.


released April 2, 2014

All songs performed by Moron Police
All songs written by Sondre Skollevoll unless noted

Sondre Skollevoll: guitar, vocals, keys, banjo, lyrics
Rune Stordahl: Bass
Thore Omland Pettersen: Drums

Additional Musicians:
Christian Fredrik Steen: Additional bass on #2,6,11
Vegar Vårdal: Fiddle on #2,8,11
Simen Hallset: Additional backup vox on #2,3,4,5,6,9

Mixed by Christian Fredrik Steen/Sondre Skollevoll
Mastered by Chris Sansom at Propeller Mastering
Artwork by Antonio Segura Donat (



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Moron Police Norway

Weird band from Norway

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Track Name: T-Bag Your Grandma
Come on and open this door to my life.
Come on and dance this fandango of knives.
Somebody told me that I was alive, but baby I've been ripped apart and eaten by mice.

And so you say I’m lazy and weird, you like my smile but you don’t like my beard.
Somebody told you that I was a lie, but honey I’m a hobo, sporadically a Weaboo, and I just wanna go my way and go!

T-bag your grandma, you've got to T-bag your grandma.
Put your balls in her mouth, put your balls in her mouth.

You see me riding the shit and the grit.
You see me rolling, I walk when I sit.
Somebody told me that I was a fool, but baby I've got gold-encrusted shit, so I’m cool.
Track Name: It's Not Cool
Stingray relates to bomb days, so hello mayday, it takes cash to be the best.
And somewhere around the hillsides, we seem to eat lies; they say “we’re better than the rest.”
Big plans on leather book hands, will defy stands, they know words we’ll never own.
And great strides were made by hard eyes, but at the same time they might be dumber than you think.

And so they say we were playing on the radio.
We should swallow up our pride and save a child by being stereo.

It’s not cool to send babies off to school.
They run out of gas too fast, then they die.
It’s not cool to send babies off to school.
They run out of gas too fast, then they die.
You've got to wait a while longer before you put them in school, because babies dying young ain't cool.
Track Name: Grand Theft Bovine
Stole a cow from the space-time continuum with no hair and five legs.
It could fly through the sky like a hurricane, but suddenly we fell like lead.
We made our aim for the house of Republicans – let’s find out what’s wrong in their heads:
The banks they’re bailing while the rich keep sailing.
Fox News lying, economy still dying.
Some guy trucking, health-care sucking.
Vote for change – then change your mind.

Holy cow! They think they’re holier than thou,
these mothers that lay no eggs.
The Sasquatch needs no friends in Congress, down to the Wall Street and all of the banks.
These fathers/mothers that poach your eggs have lost their legs.

So we dance this fine dance called America – politics and gods in my bed.
Now I sleep, counting dollars before sheep and my cow is far from dead!
So steal a cow from the space-time continuum and wear it like a hat on your head.
Track Name: Black Woman
Down in the streets, when you stomp on little babies with feet.
Ooooh! Tarantella, AH! LAZER, LAZER.

Black Woman, won’t you show me the secrets of love?
Because I need it now, I want love but I don’t know how.
Track Name: Steve Jobs Is Dead, But I'm Not
Oh my god, we hit the floor! And I don’t know what we’re fighting for?
And that’s why we don’t have our names – gaddagaddagammagadda go insane!
Break down the electric door and your body flows down to the broken floor.
And that’s why we don’t have our names – gaddagaddagammagadda go insane!

Wake up, soldier, this is war! Now we know what we are fighting for.
Marching to reclaim our brains – gaddagaddagammagadda go insane!
Sit, watch, learn and play the game so you’ll be like them and talk like them,
and maybe they’ll forget your name – gaddagaddagammagadda go insane!

The Landlord, the Sugar Daddy, the guy who gets high smoking fatties.
The road outside was paved with golden walls.
From high-school, from small beginnings, the stuff and shit that you’ll be winning!
The dust outside was made in golden halls.

Hey man, is it hard to live out there?
Where you all prepared for trouble?
Can you fly right out of your head?
Are those the clothes you’ll wear when you’re dead?
Tell me, who designed your bubble?
You should just bow your head and fade away when you’re down and out and don’t know what to say.
Track Name: Prepopherous (This Prepophery, I Will Not Have It)
I see faces and traces and places of home.
I see power-tripping monkeys and they’re rebuilding Rome.
Your words are like turds and I’m shoveling in a tornado, a sado, can’t you get me some gin?
SkibbidibabbidibibbidibabbidibibbidibabbidibibbidiBIP! And that’s the sound the bubbles make when you’re starting to sip, shit, I’m shitting on myself and soon I empty my seat, in an illusion, confusion, I start moving my feet. Extraordinary spelunking to the sound of the beat, I see a motherflippin whale playing Ping-Pong with my meat. But you canna never kill a mentally handicapped gorilla, but you can try, you can try, motherfucker, you can try.

Prepopherous, this Prepophery, I will not have it, oh no.
Prepopherous, this Prepophery, I will not have it, oh no.

Oh my God, I think I’m on a ride.
And oh my lord I’m like a blushing bride.
And if things go wrong, I’ve got that Power Slide.
Making love in the gutter, man it feels alright.
Track Name: Another Song About California
Baby won’t you move to California, ‘cause I heard they've got some really nice things there.
And my baby, I've been living in a coma, but at least I've got these wonderful pills.
Man, it’s head over heels, they said that you’d be dead – I wanna do the cinema.
If it’s right or wrong, at least the pain won’t last so long.
I’m saying I don’t wanna leave you there to die.

Baby won’t you move to California ‘cause I know they've got some really nice things there. And my baby, I've been smoking up a coma, but I never have to take those damn pills.
Cry through hands of fate and I’ll meet you on some other side, with some help from those pills and some moonshine. Why not try? It’s not too late. I’d rather not die by hands of hate and that’s okay with me. Yeah, that’s okay with me.

Baby won’t you move to California ‘cause I know they've got some really nice things.
Track Name: Soul Train Of The Damned
You stumble through a forest where the trees are alive, it doesn't matter how you got here – it’s your turn to arrive. There’s dancing, there’s fucking, there’s things being eaten alive. And in the middle there’s a train that says “you can kiss this world goodbye…”

Zombies going down to a place where their souls are bound.
A freak train making sounds.

The devils got nobody left – he’s got his body dancing up for days.
And it’s the fiddle, bow and conductor that have got him dancing in a daze.
The train keeps chewing through the spine of man – it’s got a taste for broken dreams,
and its wheels keep turning through blighted lands as their souls are turned to steam.

You’re dragged on board, the disco-light turning, all night burning, screaming through the night.
The lights are glowing, everybody’s blowing, you start dancing away from the light – you’re out of sight!

Welcome to the soul train of the damned.
Ten years past you’re still on board this limbo of the night and you’re only trying to feel the sunshine shining bright.
Track Name: Go Home, Bitch!
I've got hats, glitz, all it takes, an interstellar fervor and matching drapes.
I've got spaz, jazz, a velvet cape and a hotline suicide smashing grace.
I've got hands, slight, on the move, a rivulet of motion and spastic grooves.
I've got a smile, a shake, a helping hand – insidious bastard with a master plan.

I roll this world just like a boulder.
A man who counts himself a soldier, the love you get from me will help to free your mind,
involuntarily floating through space and time.

With a smash, clash, you start to wake.
Buddha’s on high as your body shakes.
You cough blood, choke, spit it out – your head feels trapped in a gloomy shroud.
I've got style, swag, all it takes.
You’re dangling from a roof with your life at stake.
Then it’s smash, cut, you’re bleeding out – disco beat dancing with hooks in your mouth.
Track Name: Cabo
Boat the family owns.
Banana stands and fathers making weird demands no more.
Let’s leave, we’ll sail where there’s no grief from Gangee, don’t marry me Maybe – these people “analrapp” in blue.
Tricks and illusions, Anyang and confusions in hell!

We’re going down to Cabo, we’re loving up that sunshine.
Shoot me, Dragon. Anustart! A clinic for method-acting one.
Swallow a bon-bon, Bob Loblaw lobbing law-bombs.
Break the play and fade away, resurface to live another day.

Seal, two Lucilles.
Bagdad doves.
Dusting Buster with a dust-machine!
So long, Hanukkahs!
Finding God in a cell of white power, never-nude in the shower,
final countdown to never again.
Saddam owes no Penny – you’ll never see these things again!

Jammin’ with Franklin, hair plugs are failing, wee-brains and wardens, incest!
The man trapped inside me.
Cornballer burns me.
Track Name: Welcome To The West
In the land of the dead the living pay a price.
The souls of men are like oil, their bodies prickle with lice.
There’s money and dust, there’s confetti made of rust.
Iron Jockey with a horse caught on his tail, tied down to his work while he’s been tied down to the rail.

Welcome to the West, you bitch-ass whore.

The sun will burn your eyes, your eyes will make you steal.
You’ll dine with wolves and you’ll sleep in deserts of steel.
Now as you close your eyes, in whatever hole you've found, sleep comes through the hallowed halls of old men – they stare in recognition as you’re welcomed to the fold.

Subjugate the living – make them pay through their own fears.
You’re running with this demon as you’re strangled by your peers.
You started out so well, now see the ruin that you deal.
Because evil makes a bed of aspirations and beer…

All you fuckers nailing bread to the door.
Running with the demon – it’s all I know.
And all you motherfuckers flying right down through the cracks,
the pavement like a beast that sees your body as a snack.
You started out so well, now you’re just headlights on a deer.
They say evil makes a bed of aspirations and beer.

Welcome to the West, now heed the call.
Welcome to the West, now beg and
Track Name: Stomp That Goomba
Stomp that Goomba dead, I don’t want to die.
Stomp THAT Goomba dead, smash it into Pi.
Break it down, just kick it in the cunt, don’t make it smile.
It’s nice to have answers for a while.

Magnify the world into a pile, then make it big, and soon we’ll be flying with the pigs.

Roll that motherfucking blunt up, then smoke, think about the stuff that we can do.
I don’t wanna’ wanna’ be like you/Rolling up the douchebags, I don’t wanna’ be like a fucker to you!
Rolling up the cuntbags, I don’t wanna’ be like a fucker to you!

Go when you’re almost gone.
You should go when you’re almost dead and gone.
It’s not the same when you come undone.
We should climb down from these trees.
We should set our sights on what could be.
We pray to gods not the glowing sun.
Break it all apart and let's be done.