[Intro] (Distorted pitch-shifted bass riff plays solo) (Heavy, slow bass drum kicks in) [Verse] (Vocals are raw, echoing, and minimalist over the riff) Hey player, put your armor right on! Hey player, grab your bomb-laden van! Deep in Sector Six-Seven, there is a terrible man He is disciplined, evil, and will make you scream! He packs a massive, heavy-duty machinegun! He puffs cigars just to block out the sun! And on his lip, there is a glorious prize It will bring tears of joy to your eyes! [Pre-Chorus] (The drums start building up with snare rolls, getting louder) Oh, that facial hair is smooth like bergamot oil! We need that flavor boiling under Swedish soil! It is time to strike! It is time to fight! [Chorus] (Full energy explosion - guitar mimics a squealing slide solo over the vocals) He is guarding the 'stache at the S-6-7! His stache aint going to the seven eleven. It is the ultimate prize for a Swedish snus blend He will fight to the bitter end! He is guarding the 'stache at the S-6-7! His glorious mustache will not be threatened You can fire a nuke, you can blow a bomb truck But the General says: No luck! [Harmonica solo] [Verse] A sniper takes a shot from a mile away! But the General just laughs, Not today! A player drives a bomb truck right into his shin But he just uses the blast to light his cigar again! An attack helicopter fires missiles in pairs! The General just stands there and brushes his hairs! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Is that all you've got? Your tiny little rockets aren't even hot! [Chorus] He is guarding the 'stache at the S-6-7! He is guarding the 'stache at the S-6-7! It is the ultimate prize for a Swedish snus blend He will fight to the bitter end! He is guarding the 'stache at the S-6-7! He is guarding the 'stache at the S-6-7! You can fire a nuke, you can drive a bomb truck But the General says: No luck! [Guitar Solo] [Bridge] But wait! Look up! What is that in the sky? Ten thousand flashbangs going right in his eye! He is blinded! He drops the big gun! The ultimate raid has finally begun! A player sneaks up with a giant pair of shears... The General screams out in terrible tears! [Outro] The moustache is gone! The General is dead! We are packing the portions, just like he said! Load up the tobacco! Mix in the salt! We are looting the flavor straight out of the vault! Swedish Match is cheering! The nation is proud! Pop a pouch in your lip and sing it out loud! S-6-7! Yeah! Under the lip!
