| A hatchet is employed to chop and dice
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| Cleaving meat from bone
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| With a sickening slice
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| Butchered and bagged with expert skill
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| So the neighborhood bums can get their fill
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| Curdled fat and spetic bowels
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| Are filler for our graveyard chow
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| Our prices are dirt cheap
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| For premium cuts of meat
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| And you’re in denial
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| About just what it is that you eat
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| Human limbs in a grinder, shoved
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| Extruding manburger, a cut above
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| Reeking torsos hang on hooks
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| Too rotten to sell, they’re kept for looks
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| The spoils of the night before
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| Are set to dry upon a rack
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| The cheese that forms in rotting fat
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| We spread on crackers for midnight snacks
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| The feet of stillborn babies
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| Are poached in boiling chyme
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| A shot of formaldehyde, on the rocks
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| Does the trick everytime
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| Our slaughterhouse is bathed in blood
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| Steaming organs slowly bake
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| Eviscerated bodies swing
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| Exposed vertebrae break
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| Ribs are spiced and barbecued
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| Sent to market in cripsy hunks
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| The townsfolk are none the wiser
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| As they dine on suspicious chunks
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| Our botulism soup caused quite a scare
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| And the tainted mince pies
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| May have been a little rare
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| But all in all our meat is of the highest quality
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| We get it from the rich part of the cemetery
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| Purple brains adorn their plates
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| Our ghoulish goulash sure tastes great
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| Bladders filled with bootlegged gin
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| Pickled tongues in rusty tins
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| And if they have no taste for those;
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| Eyeballs stuffed with pimentos
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| Into our meats, each penny sunk
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| These fools devour suspicious chunks |