Take him out back
Put him down slow
Momma does the rosary
Little brother digs the hole
Papa is a preacher
He won't hold a gun
So the family called me over
I guess I was the closest one
Zip ties on his wrists and ankles
Whiskey on his breath
Finally he'll bleed the anger
And sadness that he's kept
He was already dyin'
From things you can't outrun
So the family called me over
To kill their wasted son
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