| I’ve got a body in the back of my Chevrolet
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| It’s minus both eyes out of its sockets
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| I pulled the teeth from its mouth and kept the screaming contained
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| Before I dumped it on the side of the road
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| There must be 10, 15, 20, maybe 50 of them
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| They’re plugging sewers, drainage ditches and noses
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| Because the stench spilling into the township streets is choking children,
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| Making faces corrode
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| And nobody’s catching on because I cover my tracks,
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| And keep 'em guessing
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| Wonder when they’ll think to look in the back of my car?
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| Say whatever you want to
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| They won’t figure it out
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| No one’s got evidence
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| There’s no cut-dry reason to quit
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| Cleaning blood and bile is as bad as it gets
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| But I can guarantee it’s better than retail
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| The salary is even richer than horse track bets
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| And benefits are overrated, you know
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| It satisfies a neurological necessity
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| No, I haven’t tried to get it treated or dampened
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| Because I haven’t had a single problem keeping it down low
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| No, I haven’t had a problem at all
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| Tell me I should stop again, and you might find yourself below the floor
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| Who are you to say what I can talk about
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| In the privacy of my own home?
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| Say whatever you want to, but I can guarantee it’s not gonna help you |