|
Tongue in cheek till a hole burns out her mouth, |
|
And fingers crossed like the promise of cub scouts, |
|
And we know that the picture in her heart shaped locket, |
|
Is far from an inanimate object. |
|
She's as dark as the blood pulsing under her skin, |
|
Still afraid of the boogey man under her bed, |
|
And we know that the ashes in the urn was a person, |
|
And we never should have burned him. |
|
|
|
Shake it, shake it like you bouts to get paid, |
|
Boom slaggaboom, like you gots a peg leg. |
|
|
|
I'm game, you're game; you're the main attraction, |
|
And the way you fit your jeans it makes me ready for action. |
|
Break it down to a fraction, |
|
I'm doing decimal subtraction to find a reaction. |
|
|
|
This is for the C-O 3-O-3, my people, |
|
We've got the music that you can't stand still to, |
|
And even if you don't dance, |
|
I've gotta get you out and take this chance, |
|
|
|
I caught her cornering the pictures in her purse, |
|
A white reflection of the window of his hearse, |
|
And she knows not to be another wife in waiting, |
|
So she's just a widow that I'm dating. |
|
Rolled up sleeves with a carton in it's fold, |
|
A rusted chain with a cross that once was gold, |
|
And I look from a distance as the coffin closes, |
|
And disappears below the roses. |
|
|
|
Shake it, shake it like you bouts to get paid, |
|
Boom slaggaboom, like you gots a peg leg. |
|
|
|
This is for the C-O 3-0-3, my people, |
|
We've got the music that you can't stand still to, |
|
And even if you don't dance, |
|
I've gotta get you out and take this chance. |