-> "Queued Next In The North Jersey Herald"
Original Song Title:
"The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald"
Parody Song Title:
"Queued Next In The North Jersey Herald"
The Lyrics
They're legends in towns like Aliquippa [1] they're found,
To the big lake way up there by Erie.
There's "Snake" he got dead, with a round to the head,
He forgot to remember things clearly.
They're a load of hard core, twenty kicked drownded off shore,
Made the North Jersey Herald obitsies.
'Cause loose lips are booed, to the bone you get screwed,
Those who tell on our members get buried.
You're spit if you've lied; there is nowhere you can hide,
You'll be laid on boot hill with your johnson.
They'll make big crater holes, pull the trigger you're toast,
If you screw with a Capo, it's treason.
Dead dudes sleep with worms, with a contract deal turned,
Where they're dumped fully bloated near Cleveland.
Then later they'll fight, bullets spit hell bang,
Ever bring forth no end to the killing.
Life ends for all liars and the tattletale clowns,
In the grave blokes lie in their failing.
As ev'ry man knew to his Capo be true,
'Cause a snitch fires tempers for squealing.
The Don he is great in his Lexus seals the fate,
As he yells shows his temper's for trashing.
A whacker goon came, his name "Freeze-N-Maim",
In your face in no hurry came dustin'.
You'll suffer dime game, if they book you for wreck,
These "good-fellahs" they play rough, they'll eat you.
Eleven GMs with some cash-pay waived in,
These "good-fellas" their cash they all go through.
When Capos fire men, comes the slaughter gunning men,
It's a good hittin' crew brings them peril,
Made later by fight, in gun sites, met their plight,
They're queued next in the North Jersey Herald.
If catch them death row, where the fear of God knows,
Where the warden does flick it the power.
The surges convey in a white flash display,
It's the sizzling of wires that fry there.
They fight then split up; dead to rights are capped guys.
They smoked every creep in the slaughter.
They write their remains on news pages for the slain,
And list wives and their sons or their daughters.
The curtain tolls, superiors bring,
Down a screwin' in "Ice" slaughter fashion.
Old "Mitch" and "Stan" scheme, but a loose tongue sings,
The wisened make prey of these dork men.
"Frank Furter" was slow; he'll carry his woe,
Scrapin' and makes barely some tender.
Cooked in iron pots slow, sauce marinara al Joe,
Eat these meals don't keep slender these members.
If you're crusty, have gall, you exploit your prey,
Like old Carmine "Too Loud" Boccotesta.
His hoarse yelled chimes; he's spent plenty of dimes,
For those scanned in the North Jersey Herald.
They're legends in towns like Aliquippa they're found,
To the big lake way up there by Erie.
Inferiors they pay, never live, wind up dead,
Then interred by pall bearers in Jersey.
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Voting Results
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Pacing: | 5.0 | |
How Funny: | 5.0 | |
Overall Rating: | 5.0 | |
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Total Votes: | 10 |
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Voting Breakdown
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