[The three Fates moan backup as zombies do beat-box . . . ]
It’s a quarter till YOU in the afternoon,
So doncha go makin’ static–
Or me & mah combine will see ya real SOON!
Ah call it mah ‘sickle-matic.’
At the end of the plague, Ah almost got demoted!
My old blade could compete,
But the world population’s done gone and exploded.
Oh, Ah need a FASTER beat!
Yo!
Pimp out mah combine!
Pimp out mah combine!
Pimp out mah combine!
Dance; dance!
*death
