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Chitlins Whiskey and Skirt

The Gone Jackals

The population is greatly decreased.
And now the odds are greatly increased.
That i may someday get a chance,
To kiss your lips.
I thank the lo-o-ord each day,
For the apocalypse.

Folks are mostly disfigured or dead
But, sugar, i wont let it go to my head.
My mama's face has dripped down into the dirt.

But i'm still chasin' chitlins, whiskey and skirt.
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