Shovelhead

The cry of a mother, the voice of the dead Ripping from my Chevrolet A maculate corpse is drenched with dread And it's gonna die from my Chevrolet Blinded by the blade of this fate you are sprayed Ancient of beast, the father of kings In the back of your mouth, the teeth in your jaw We make this day of the Chevrolet Breaking out of the grave, I beg for blood A little blood of course gets you killed by Chevrolet I can lay down the road on a trail of blood red You lose your mind on the point of my Chevrolet My Chevrolet!