| It’s like a million cars deep, in this cemetary
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| I’m dressed in black, high heels, black veil, and a strap
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| Homies sheddin tears about it, reminscin
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| Older yesteryears, how we kicked it there
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| It’s a great day for undataking
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| Jim, back the truck up
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| I’m backin it up a little further
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| Hurry up, back the truck up
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| Gotchu
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| A hundred percent of you think you’re popular
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| I haven’t watched cable and television, in 20 years
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| You catch the hook
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| I don’t even know how the average jackass with a jersey look
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| Check the format, Mr. and Mrs. Unknown
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| I’m like the Amish people
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| Candles, no phone, although jocked by many stars
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| Who copy me, still on my bone — been ridin limos
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| Watching crossing guards move you to the Immature zone
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| From top to middle, down to the bottom
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| You face the highway, lookin at Leatherface
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| Three miles away, you’ll be in wrong place
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| I will make the move with the truck
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| The Funeral Director, will come with his own
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| Black suit and that spector, to step in his ride
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| Will we see, when the cow walks at night midnight with the leather hide
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| I will walk and stand in the dark zone, with the light, from the lamp
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| This is no sleepaway camp
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| That’s right, I am, the Funeral Director
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| And we do not, run, a sleepaway camp here
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| We only, take
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| Manic depressive, mental patient
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| In a basement smokin wet in the morgue
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| With a swordfight, cat up, runnin meditatin
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| Without no ouiji board
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| My omnipotent potential crush skulls
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| Chewin through yo' favorite rapper’s nails
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| Walkin with body parts in L-A-X airport
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| With a briefcase kept confidential
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| A natural born menace runnin loose through yo' neighborhood residential
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| Urban suburban section a killin machine, with 187 credentials
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| My bladin through South Central, South Bronx, walkin through South Chicago
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| Ivan Durago, Red Dragon, Hannibal Canibal, chewin through human jawbones
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| Handle your mandible with a iron claw, black iron eagle with evil thoughts
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| I release human form, drink blood drops
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| Love to watch when a body drops, when the shotty pops, better drop
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| When I strike yo' turf, cause if you don’t run and hide, it’s suicide
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| I’ma stun yo' hide, and leave you — six feet underneath the earth
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| Serial killer like Ted Bundy, on the mic I’m Adolf Hitler
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| Far worse than Osama Bin Laden, plottin on hell
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| When I get there I’ma kill the devil first, then put his head up for sale
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| Put his head out for sale, put his head up for sale
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| Yes, we will, put his head up for sale
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| His heart, his liver
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| His whole, internal, organs
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| We don’t play here
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| We Undatake, here
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| So remember
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| It’s a Grave, Undataking |