| Toe tagz body bagz dead body cold slab
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| Embalm the body after the autopsy
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| No blood just formaldehyde, the outcome of homicide or suicide
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| Pine box, dressed in ya sunday best
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| Got a single white rose layin off on ya chest
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| Close the open casket ain’t no coming back
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| Like a one-way ticket be it coach or first class
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| Like a trip to the otherside soaked in all black
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| Time to face facts layin flat on my dead back
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| I flip that call it all a mishap
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| Then bag up ya body with tagz so they don’t mismatch
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| Toe tagz body bagz imma put you on a cold slab
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| Toe tagz body bagz zip yo ass up in a bag
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| Tag’em and bag’em and drag’em in to the underground
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| Collect preserve use discretion never make a sound
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| Floor boards squeak but the dead don’t speak
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| They marinate in the fruit celler for up to 3 weeks
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| Till they’re ripe for pickin and they get plucked and tucked
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| Between the walls like insulation where they remain stuck
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| Forced to listen to other victims getting the same
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| Cause the artist is consistent so it’s performed the same way
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| Hefty cinch sak 50 gallon or more
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| Available in any home improvement or grocery store
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| I buy’em by the pallette and fill my trunk with dead bodies
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| Three fat, two skinny old men and stacked hotties
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| I tag’em on the toe so only I will know
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| How I killed’em and the reason why they came here for
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| Got so many got a library a thru z
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| All buried beneath the lights of my H-O-M-E
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| Linda and Larry and Lori we got most of the L’s
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| 20 or 30 or more as we dig in to hell
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| Tunnels and caverns underneath the apolled
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| Deeper in the ground so the body remains cold
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| With copies of toe tagz man I treat' it like a recipt
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| There’s a copy for you copy for me customer policy
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| I run a business and this hobbies not a game
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| It’s a passion for the art normal people would call insane
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| Big silva duck tape toe tagz dead weight
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| 2 on da porch 1 more in the crawl space with no face
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| Looking at me but I hear’em at night
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| Crawlin through the walls trying to rob me of my own life |