| 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. |
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