[Production: Dark Southern Gothic horror country. Serious, ominous vocal delivery with dark humor in the lyrics. Slow-burning suspense, swampy bass, sinister fiddle, gritty guitar, eerie pauses. No spoken introductions, no crowd sounds, no humming. Follow all instrumental and silence cues.] [Intro — low pulsing bass, eerie fiddle, distant fryer sizzling] [Verse 1 — low, ominous storytelling] Old Man Tucker had a roadside shack Where the highway bent and the pines grew black Friday the thirteenth, just after ten He fired that old deep fryer up again Had a mean red rooster, tough as nails With a crooked beak and a missing tail Tucker said, "Boy, your time is through" But that bird had other plans in view [Pre-Chorus — drums begin a slow heartbeat] The grease boiled over, the lights went out Something hit the floor and started moving about Three wet scratches on the kitchen door And Tucker heard a sound he'd heard before [Whispered, rhythmic] Cluck... cluck... cluck... [Chorus — driving swamp-country groove, dark and catchy] It's Fryday the Thirteenth, better lock that door There's a half-fried rooster scratching at the floor He came back crispy, but he ain't quite done Now the cook's on the menu and the chickens run You can hide in the kitchen, you can pray all night But that bird's got a bone to pick tonight The grease starts bubbling, and the lights go red It's Fryday the Thirteenth, and he ain't staying dead [Verse 2 — playful menace, serious delivery] Deputy Jones pulled up around two Found a trail of feathers and a bloody shoe Coffee still warm and the fryer still hot But Old Man Tucker was nowhere on the lot Then a shadow crossed the windowpane Three sharp taps came tapping again Jones drew his gun, said, "Who's out there?" Saw two red eyes and a plume of hair [Pre-Chorus — rising tension] The back door creaked, the floorboards groaned The deputy reached for his radio phone A rusty old skillet rolled across the floor Then came that scratching at the door [Whispered] Cluck... cluck... cluck... [Chorus — stronger drums, ominous fiddle] It's Fryday the Thirteenth, better lock that door There's a half-fried rooster scratching at the floor He came back crispy, but he ain't quite done Now the cook's on the menu and the chickens run You can hide in the kitchen, you can pray all night But that bird's got a bone to pick tonight The grease starts bubbling, and the lights go red It's Fryday the Thirteenth, and he ain't staying dead [Bridge — strip back to low bass and single fiddle note] Tucker crawled from underneath the stairs Grabbed his iron skillet, said a desperate prayer Raised it high to strike that bird Then froze at the sound of what he heard [Instruments stop — complete silence] [One dry chicken cluck] [Slow, whispered vocal] Beyond the fence, beyond the yard A thousand feathered shadows, every one charred They filled the road, they filled the night And every pair of eyes burned bright [Full band crashes in] [Final Chorus — dramatic, darkly triumphant] It's Fryday the Thirteenth, don't unlock that door There's a thousand dead chickens marching across the floor They came back crispy, and they ain't quite done Now the cooks are the dinner and the chickens have won You can hide in the kitchen, you can pray all night But those birds got a bone to pick tonight The grease starts bubbling, and the lights go red It's Fryday the Thirteenth, and they ain't staying dead [Outro — instruments drop away, lone fiddle and bass] They boarded up the windows They nailed shut every door But every Fryday the Thirteenth There's scratching on the floor [Long silence] [Low whisper] Cluck... cluck... cluck... [End — abrupt stop]
