| Foolish foodie picnic in the castle ruins high
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| Spilling Shloer so carelessly around
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| The warning signs have faded and the people of the town
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| Forgot the terror looking underground
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| Fancy Dan the basket man, filling up on pie
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| Spilled a Blue Nun deep into the pit
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| Soon the bones assembled there will star to join and knit
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| A lordly monster rising from the crypt
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| Back from the grave
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| There’s no escape
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| Vengeance that comes for us all
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| Stalking the night
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| Laughing behind
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| Steel teeth in a rusty jaw
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| Risn again
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| Feasting on men
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| Resort to a primitiv law
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| Head on a spike
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| Ready to strike
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| Steel teeth in a rusty jaw
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| His fancy clothes are bogging and his sharp face is all rusty
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| They killed him and it made him quite annoyed
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| He’s a rakish auld boldie, his brain jam is mouldy
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| Upon a time he fed on oiks
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| But times they’re a changing and thirsting for brains
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| Isn’t de rigueur in modern days
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| Aggressive rabble drive him back to his castle
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| Throwing half-full cans at his head
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| Remember the time when he drank all the wine
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| But the wine was blood and guts and human balls
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| But the story is true, the locals recall
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| How they split his skull and shat him up the walls
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| Burnt and shot and kicked and hung, and spat at in the face
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| And called a cruel name to top it off
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| He’s a symbol of redundant aristocracy
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| Who somehow keeps returning in our songs |