Turbonegro Final Warning Lyrics

owners of cars
closers of bars
cross country stars
this is my final warning

breakers of deals
stealers of meals
sealers of seals
this is my final warning

all you squares in the dead zone
beware in the danger zone
all you squares in the dead zone
knock knock and there's nobody home
jump back, jump back
step back, step back
when you die you'll be dead
you'll be on your own

I'm gonna make you well-behave
I'm gonna penetrate your cave
I'm gonna dance on your grave
this is my final warning

I'll burn you at the stake
I'll throw you in a lake
I'll never hesitate, never hesitate
this is my final warning

it's the final countdown
for the final clampdown

this is my final warning
I'm gonna keep you running
I'll kill you in the morning
when you see me coming

I'll kill you all, without mercy

Hidden Track:
My name is Bojan Milankovic.
During early years of dark 90's, on desolate lowland of Serbia, there was an act of war, and rain fall from great clouds.
Me, and my brother Marko listened to Turbonegro for what shall i say, motivation. Turbonegro, make us feel like animal out of control.
This is good.
Then i read international magazine from American groups big boss in musik industry speak:
"You Turbonegro haha funny little hat and lipstick on lip. We take not serious silly little rockband. We bet money on other band this and that. America, Britain."
Now, you will realize you make very, very wrong bet.
So, big important music boss, pulling string, make decision, young girl, cocaine.
You like party?
You party boy?
Okey.
Crank up stereo r_____ pig, and we party together.
In Novi Stad we have festival, where we consume substance, and whip innocent little goat to death while clapping hands.
So, now we shall make festival for you. Cause i like you. Let's party.
I want to kiss your important lip.
Oh no!
Six million little nihilistic robot with funny hat is coming your way.
Funny hat, means blind group mentality and mass hysteria and strict order.
Oh no!
Funny hat means facing merciless rage of battle vehicle called Turbojugend.
How funny is funny hat now, you stupid dog?
And who i see, sitting on your fat lap?
Little weak music critic, is that you?
You always lick a___ of music industry boss, dig your head in little leech.
You might not want to hear this, because now is my turn to speak word of apocalypse to you.
Ten years too late you suddenly talk:
"Ohh Turbonegro, number one rock'n'roll band."
But i smell little hypocrite weasel talking with cleft in tongue. It is too late to say sorry.
In Serbia, we speak this: You can wash blood of a hound, but aroma of guilt will stick to carcass until hate fills the night.
I ask you this: When you are lying tied up like crying freak pig in dark crawlspace under Serbian farmhouse, will you take out sharp critic pen, and write about your little taste? Will you make intellectual opinion with sharp tongue when designer clothes are crushed into eyeballs and excrement and blood is hanging in fancy-pants moustasche?
I think not. Look into my eyes. What do you see?
You see abyss of two thousand and five hundred years of Serbian trauma.
You laugh like ironic hyena now little critic? i think not.