[Intro | 4 bars | dry, amused male speech | drifting tape delays, reversed guitar, sparse detuned music-box notes over a low organ drone] Management accepts no responsibility For whatever follows you home. [Verse 1 | 24 bars | playful, sly male rap at an 88 BPM feel | rolling DnB breaks, rounded sub, phased electric piano; faint tremolo guitar] Lugosi gets the close-up, Karloff gets the slab; Vincent makes a murder sound as civil as a toast. Norman's at reception with a key we shouldn't grab; We still give him five stars: what a dedicated host. Michael's on the sidewalk; Jason's climbing from the lake. Freddy booked the guest room; better find some coffee, quick. Leatherface is catering. Who wants another steak? Ghostface wants your favorite film. Hang up on that prick. There's a boom mic in the graveyard and a zipper on the beast; The corpse beside the coffin's trying hard to hide a cough. Pass around the popcorn; let the rubber monsters feast. We rate the whole production by how many heads come off. [Pre-Chorus | 8 bars | rising half-sung male lead, distant whispered doubles | swirling organ, chromatic tension, tightening snare rolls] Lock the door. Disconnect the phone. Something's moving underneath your chair. Count your friends. Did you all come alone? If you're scared, good. We're getting somewhere. [Chorus | 16 bars | hypnotic melodic hook, close doubles, eerie low responses | full rolling breaks, warm Reese bass, wide swirling pads] Bring your own body bag! Come on in, the blood looks fake! Put your feet up. Have a heart attack. How much more can the speakers take? Bring your own body bag! Save a front-row seat for the freaks! We keep coming, coming, coming back. Let the dead bang their heads to the beat! [Verse 2 | 24 bars | nimble, mischievous male rap with a storyteller's grin | busier breaks, elastic bass, orbiting arpeggios; sparse detuned bell answers] Herbert West is handing out injectable second chances; Check the dosage, someone's head is talking from a tray. Dead Alive has put an early stop to all the dancing; They've fired up the lawnmower. Best get out the way. There's a Klown outside with candy and a very suspect smile; The Blob has hit the diner. Send the chef our sympathies. Toxie's got a mop for every crook within a mile; Keep your Basket Case upright between your shaking knees. There's a hand behind the headstone working overtime for scale; There's a bucket full of butcher's scraps beneath the leading man. Every head explodes exactly where the plot begins to fail; Someone give effects a raise. They've earned another fan. [Pre-Chorus | 8 bars | rising half-sung delivery; soft whispered response on the final line | rotating organ, slowly bending pitch, snare build] Lock the door. Disconnect the phone. Something's moving underneath your chair. Count your friends. Did you all come alone? If you're scared, good. We're getting somewhere. [Chorus | 16 bars | stronger melodic hook, stacked male doubles, ghostly phrase-end delays | full breaks, wide pads, wah-guitar answers] Bring your own body bag! Come on in, the blood looks fake! Put your feet up. Have a heart attack. How much more can the speakers take? Bring your own body bag! Save a front-row seat for the freaks! We keep coming, coming, coming back. Let the dead bang their heads to the beat! [Breakdown | 8 bars | low, conspiratorial male speech with long pauses | drums dissolve; backward guitar, detuned music box, uneasy sustained chords; snares return late] The budget's dead. The plot is gone. The leading man just lost an arm. Nobody leaves. Put the sequel on. We knew the risks. That's half the charm. [Instrumental Drop | 8 bars | no vocals | rolling chopped breaks, warm Reese bass, circling arpeggios; brief theremin-like bends drift through stereo delays] [Final Chorus | 16 bars | biggest layered melodic hook, octave doubles, distant low responses | full DnB groove, swirling organ, subtly uneasy pads] Bring your own body bag! Come on in, the blood looks fake! Put your feet up. Have a heart attack. How much more can the speakers take? Bring your own body bag! Save a front-row seat for the freaks! We keep coming, coming, coming back. Let the dead bang their heads to the beat! [Outro | 4 bars plus decay | dry, satisfied male speech | drifting tape delays, a final detuned bell, low organ decay] Five stars. Absolutely no redeeming qualities.
