Play My Song

We hit the ace, ace, ace and we love giving chase.

Wicked clowns got more than some pie for your face.

With a drip, drip, drip, its blood on the strip. Three

disassembled bodies in the truck of the whip.

Hear the saw, saw, saw, right below your jaw.

You see your own head roll off the table and fall.

See the puck, puck, puck, flamin' arrows in your

truck and one in your lung stuck, you fucked outta luck.



Chorus:

Play my song. Gimmie something I can lean on.

Whatcha tryin' to hear.

Something about murder. I got that.

Play my song. Gimmie something I can lean on.

Whatcha tryin' to hear.

Something about murder. I got that.

Play my song. Bloody, bloody, bloody.

Whatcha tryin' to hear.

Bloody, bloody, bloody, bloody.

Play my song. Bloody, bloody, bloody.

Whatcha tryin' to hear.

Bloody, bloody, bloody, bloody.



Here come the hack, hack, hack, knives in your back,

blood down your spine, all in your ass crack.

With a swing, swing, swing, your throat's whistlin'

the three incisions I made are as fine as g-strings.

It's the pat, pat, pat from behind with a bat and

spatter every crack till your whole head flat.

Beat the jab, jab, jab, I'll punch you in your flab,

drag you to the butcher shop an chop you into slabs.



Chorus



(Murder... Death... War...)



Every one of us gotta have murder and death,

to remind ourselves that we still have our breath

Whether its tasteful or disgraceful, Shit, as long

as everybody gets a face full

Some of us root for the coppers, others root for

the killing, but everybody needs they murderous thrillins

Trace it back to when mankind was swinging

from trees, Murder is what we talkin' about, and always will be



Chorus