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Chitlins, whiskey and skirt -- Increased chances

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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